


And Now Their Watch Begins

by nickahontas



Series: And Now Their Watch Begins [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-06-21 21:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 62,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15566388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: After their death for the Battle of Winterfell, three Starks wake as children. Winter is coming and the dead with it, but King Robert Baratheon is making his way North after the death of Jon Arryn. Sansa must work with her siblings to convince the North that the real danger lies beyond the wall.





	1. Prologue

The Night King prowled across the godswood. The trees crackled around them with dragon fire. Ghost was injured and bleeding atop a burning log, too broken to save himself. Jon had died at the hands of this _thing_ before her, distracted by Danaerys falling from her dragon. Drogon had gone wild with grief and breathed fire on the living and the dead. She'd felt the heat even underground. Sandor had brought Ice, Heartsbane, and Red Rain to her not minutes ago. Everyone was dead.

Sansa was supposed to retreat to the crypts with the old and young. She was supposed to wait it out until the food ran dry then lead the remaining people south. The dead didn’t swim. They were to break the ice and make for the coast. Perhaps try to meet up with Nymeria. Jon had hoped that Rhaegal would protect them after his death. The green dragon tried, but with a mangled wing the wights overran him in minutes. She couldn’t bring herself to hide. This was her home. She was the last Stark alive.

The Valyrian steel axe was unfamiliar in her grip. Brienne and sweet Pod had taught her the basics of a sword and dagger, but never an axe. It had belonged to some Iron Islander, then Tormund Giantsbane, then Sandor Clegane and now her. It was far too heavy for her frame.

Sansa glanced from Ghost to the Night King and back again. Ghost was all that was left of her family. The Lady of Winterfell would not let her last kin die in pain. She darted to the left, but before she managed even a step, a sharp, cold pain erupted through her belly.


	2. Death was Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa awakens in her childhood home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There seemed to be some interest as soon as I uploaded the prologue, so I'm posting the first chapter to see more opinions. This is a dialogue-heavy chapter since it's a lot of explaining.

A part of Sansa had always craved death. She’d given up on the gods a long time ago. Death was to be her only peace in the world. It would be an eternal, infinite nothing.

Death was Winterfell. It was the smell of cold rain and the remnants of a fire. It was the heat seeping through the stone walls and the brusque northern accents of the servants drifting in through the window. Sansa allowed herself a small smile.

“Are you awake?” A familiar, girlish voice demanded. “You’ve got to get up.”

Sansa’s eyes flew open. Her sister loomed over her, years younger and with a wide, thick scar on her neck. A choking noise escaped Sansa.

Arya nodded fervently. “I know.”

“What is this?! He killed me, I know he killed me!”

“ _Valar_ Doaeris,” her sister intoned gravely.

All men must serve. Sansa studied their old bedroom. Her sister had thrown the shutters open. The sun had reclaimed its golden hue; the grim light of winter had not stolen it’s warmth yet. Their beds were side by side, Sansa’s done in pink and Arya’s in green. Shelves of toys and dolls lined the walls, only interrupted by an occasional painting of some Stark child long dead. She’d escaped to here once, when she was still married to Ramsey. It was destroyed.

“I thought it was over,” Sansa whispered.

The door to their room crashed against the wall. Sansa sat upright. Arya wielded a candlestick at the intruder.

It was only Jon, jaw smooth and his eye still scarred, breathing heavily. He froze. It only took one look at his sisters for his face to drop. Sansa could almost hear his heart pounding from across the room. He cursed darkly as he eyed Arya’s throat. The heaviness weighing on Sansa’s chest lifted just a bit; her big brother was here.

“Jon? What’s the matter with you?!” Someone called down the hall. Jon hurried to close the door, but a gangly auburn haired teen threw himself in the crack and wrestled it open. Robb stopped short, blue eyes wide, at the sight of Arya. Behind him, Jon shut the door and barred it. He went as far to move the girls’ trunk of play clothes in front of it.

“Bran?” Sansa demanded. “Rickon?”

“What?” Robb asked. His incredulous expression might have been funny if the situation weren’t so dire. “Who? Arya, your neck-“

She ignored her brother and looked to Jon. He merely shook his head.

“They weren’t in the nursery,” he said solemnly.

“Arya!” Robb cried. “What happened-?!”

“Where are Bran and Rickon?” Arya asked.

“Bran and Rickon? Who in seven hells are Bran and Rickon? Are you talking about Uncle Brandon? He died long ago. What is on your neck, Arya?”

Robb went on asking questions but his siblings paid him no mind. They stared at on another, faces grim and hearts pounding. It was obvious; Bran - no, the Three Eyed Raven that had stolen her little brother away- had done something terrible.

“What did he do?” Arya whispered in horror.

“He wasn’t in the godswood,” Sansa supplied.

Arya looked at her sharply. “How do you know?”

“Because she was in the godswood with Ghost,” Jon answered.

“You were supposed to be in the crypts,” Arya snapped.

“I couldn’t let him take-“

“Only death may pay for life,” Jon interrupted. “The Red Woman once said only death may pay for life. If there are three of us-“

“Father!” Arya cried.

Sansa jumped out of bed as Jon lunged for the trunk.

“SANSA!” Robb bellowed. She stopped, almost against her will. She’d never heard him like this, but she’d imagined it plenty of times. It must have been the voice he used to command his armies across the Neck. “What the bloody hell is going- your arm...”

The white nightgown only reached her elbows. She’d taken care to cover every inch of her skin from neck to toe before. An angry pink scar in the shape of a dog bite began on her left forearm and twisted down to just above her wrist. Jon straightened, his face very white and his full lips pressing into a thin line. Ramsey was back, too. The gods weren’t that kind. Littlefinger and Cersei and Joffrey were all back again. Sansa struggled, but she managed to push the panic down.

“My dressing robe, Robb,” Sansa demanded calmly. She glanced at the grey and pink garment over his shoulder.

He grabbed it from the hook, but didn’t hand it over. “Not until you tell me what is happening.”

“We will. After we find Father,” she promised.

He rolled his eyes but tossed it to her nonetheless. Sansa’s body was in an awkward stage that occurred just before puberty. Her breasts were budding, knees ached, but her arms still had some of the fat from childhood. Her hands were clean and her nails were long. It was stupid, but she’d missed having long, pretty nails.

Arya rounded on him. “So Father’s alright then?”

“I don’t see why not. But with you lot-“

“Mother?” Sansa asked.

“Mother? Sansa....Mother died birthing Arya. You know that. Are you alright? Come, I’ll take you to Maester Lewin.”

Sansa took a deep breath. Arya crossed to the window, looking out at the green expanse of their home.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said softly.

A knock sounded at the door just before it rattled.

“Girls?” A woman called.

“In a minute,” Sansa said in her sweetest voice.

“Is everything okay, Lady Sansa?”

“Yes. Just a minute, please.”

The woman hesitated for a moment, but continued down the hall soon after. Sansa sat on her bed, pulling the robe tight around herself. Jon joined her and Arya soon after. Robb, still bewildered and more than a bit angry, lowered himself onto Arya’s bed across from them. He crossed his eyes and glowered like Rickon had done so many times before.

It made sense, she thought, resting her head on Jon’s shoulder. Catelyn Tully was not a Stark. She did not have ice in her veins. Though Bran and Rickon did and Bran was too important to the old gods to be tossed away. Perhaps he was already there, already learning from the man that claimed too be Bloodraven. Would they demand another life for him if he was already there?

“Who was it that went north with Bran?” Sansa asked.

“The Reed children and Hodor,” Jon answered.

“We’ll need to send a raven. Perhaps they might be able to tell us something,” Sansa said.

“I wish you were able to tell me something,” Robb mumbled.

Jon sighed deeply, the exhaustion heavy in his bones. This was the second time he’d died and come back. It made her glad she wasn’t a god. She didn’t want to be the one to greet him when he finally died. She’d seen him angry. Danaerys called it his dragon temper but the silver queen had never seen how wild the Starks could get.

“We’ll have to tell them,” he said, studying Robb like a puzzle. “There’s too much to do on our own.”

Arya stood. “I’ll go fetch Father.”

“Not with your throat like-“ Sansa was cut off by another knock at the door.

“Girls?” The woman called again.

“We need Father,” Arya shouted.

The woman was quiet for a moment before she said through the door, “If the Lady has flowered I can fetch-“

Arya rolled her eyes. “No, she isn’t _bleeding_. None of us are _bleeding_. I won’t open this door for anyone but Lord Stark so you better not fetch anyone but him.”

“Arya!” Robb chastised.

“Lord Robb?!” The woman exclaimed.

“My father NOW!” Arya yelled.

The woman’s footsteps scurried off down the hall.

“You’re not half as scary anymore,” Sansa teased.

“How old are we anyway?” She scowled, plopping down on a cushion beside a dollhouse. “When is it? And why in seven hells do they say we’ve flowered when we’re bleeding between our legs?”

Rob choked but was wise enough to stay quiet.

“Before King’s Landing, I’d wager,” Jon said as he rubbed his smooth chin. “And we don’t have the wolves yet.”

 _LadyLadyLady_. Sansa’s breath caught. To have her direwolf, to have her fur and fangs and love was too much to ask. It was more than she deserved. Her death was one that she’d never finished mourning.

The Starks were silent, each contemplating the morning, until someone pounded on the door. “Robb! Girls! Open this door now!”

Robb hurried to unlatch the lock. He pulled the door back to reveal Ned Stark towering in the doorway. His long face was as grim as ever. Sansa realized with a start that she had turned into her father. They all said she was her mother’s twin, but she had more in common with her father than anyone knew.

“What is the meaning of this?” He demanded. “Your maid is frantic-“

Sansa and Arya threw themselves at their father. Jon hesitated until Arya gave him a nasty face. Ned laughed, a bit bewildered, but hugged all three of his children back. He smelled like leather and pine and home. She wept silently, running her fingers through the end of Arya’s hair. Jon was the first to pull away. He embraced Robb next, one of those manly hugs that end in a shoulder clap. Arya followed Jon, right down to the shoulder clap, but Sansa only stepped back. It was selfish and foolish, but she couldn’t bring herself to forgive him. Logically, it was best to keep Jaime as a prisoner. She wouldn’t have let him go. Still, it felt like a knife was twisted in her chest whenever she thought of kingsguard and their hilts and Joffrey ranting about Robb and Jaime. She had yet to forgive herself of her sins. How would she forgive anyone else of theirs?

Lord Stark ran his stern, silver gaze over each of his children as they wiped at their eyes. It wasn’t until Arya lifted her head from her arm that he noticed something was terribly wrong.

“What in seven hells is this?!” He cried as he rushed to his daughter. He closed the distance in two strides.

Sansa bolted the door behind him and stood with her hands clasped. Ned twisted his daughter’s head from side to side, even wiping at the scar to see if it was real. He glanced at Sansa, saw her to be untouched, and then studied Jon. He didn’t stand like a boy on the cusp of manhood. He stood tall and unwavering like a wizened king of old. Slowly, Jon lifted his thin night shirt. His body was softer and less muscled, but he still had the scars. There were the nineteen stab wounds from the Watch and a newer, darker one that ran from the left crook of his neck to his heart. His right wrist was banded in a thick line too. Disarmed and nearly cut in half. A new surge of anger overtook Sansa. Her knuckles went white where they clasped the other hand.

“We died Father,” Jon said in a steady low voice. “All of us died.”

Ned’s brow furrowed and he looked at his daughter’s neck again. Robb shrugged in response to his father’s wordless question and Sansa avoided their gazes. She wouldn’t show any of her scars if she could help it. She wouldn’t let Ramsey have that too. Instead, she said, “He got me in the navel and pulled up.”

_Her long legs dangled in the air. Ice flamed through her torso and cold bit at her cheeks. A cruel curiosity shone through the eerie blue eyes staring back at her._

“Who?” Robb demanded, his young face as red as his hair.

“The Night King,” she said.

It took all of two heartbeats for Robb and Ned to erupt.

“Do you think this is funny?!” Ned demanded. “This is not a good joke.”

“It’s no joke,” Arya said.

“I know who my mother was,” Jon interrupted. Every head swiveled to him. “And my father.”

Arya laughed. “Not before he fu-“

“Arya,” Sansa cut in lightly.

“Your father?” Robb asked, mouth gaping.

Ned held up his hand for silence.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Ned said in a shaking voice. Sansa sat on her bed, leaning back against the headboard so she could get a better look at them all. She pulled down her dress to make sure it didn’t go past her knees. “It was for your own protection, for everyone’s protection.”

“I understand,” Jon said softly. “You are still my father. I’m still a Stark. The North is in my bones, no matter what is in blood.”

Ned staggered back and sat on the foot of Sansa’s bed. He cradled his head in hands. They waited patiently, her other siblings sitting beside one another on Arya’s bed. After a few minutes, he peered up at his children. “You all died? The Night King, truly? Not Robert?”

Arya snorted. “That fat drunk couldn’t touch me if he tried.”

“You met the King?” Ned asked.

“Maybe it would be best if Jon told his story first,” Sansa suggested gently.

“Why do I have to go first?” He scowled.

“Cause you know the important stuff best, stupid,” Arya teased.

“Alright,” he grumbled.

Jon launched into his tale. He began with King Robert’s visit, then the wall. He was only interrupted twice. Jory Cassel stepped in to check on the family. He was puzzled, but pleased, when Arya and Sansa both hugged him. Next was a maid bringing in water and breakfast. Only Robb and Arya are, wolfing down their bread and fruit. Sansa went after, explaining everything that happened in King’s Landing and all that she knew of the War of the Five Kings. Robb thundered when she spoke of Joffrey and cursed when he heard of his own sins. Sansa’s stomach twisted when she spoke of Ramsey. She kept that part short, saying only that he was cruel and greedy. She spoke of her escape with Theon, capturing Winterfell with Jon, fighting with Danaerys and their deaths.

Arya’s speech was even shorter. She simply said she spent the war “hiding throughout Westeros” and then “training across the Narrow Sea”. Sansa shared an amused smile with Jon.

Ned and Rob were quiet for a long time. The sun was shining brightly through the shutters. A silly thought crossed her mind: it would be warm enough to keep the windows open again.

It was Robb who broke the silence.

“Dragons, truly?” He whispered in awe.

“Aye,” Jon said with a grin.

“They’re every bit as large and fearful as you would expect,” Sansa said. “But very smart and loyal to those that their rider is.”

“Did you ride one, too?” Robb asked.

“No,” she said with a smile. “But Rhaegal let both Arya and I meet him. He visited when things got rough at the end. I think he knew we needed a bit of warmth.”

“We all loved him,” Arya said fondly. “Men died for him when he fell. That’s how a wight got me. There’ll never be a fight like it again. It’s how the good ones died. Jaime, Brienne, Tormund. The Hound was there until they all died. I watched him run off while I bled out. ”

“He brought us their Valyrian steel. I took the axe and-”

“While you bled out?!” Ned thundered. “How can you speak of it that way?”

Arya shrugged. “It wasn’t a bad death. It didn’t hurt too much. And I was with the dragon so at least I was warm at the end.”

Sansa touched her stomach. “It was cold. His sword was so cold it burned.”

Jon's lips were curled in disgust, but he understood. He'd died by the same blade.

“It was quick, at least,” she conceded. “I always thought I would die slow.”

“Madness,” her father muttered. “Utter madness."

“Father, please, you believe us don’t you?” Arya cried.

He rubbed at his brow, his dark hair hiding his face. She could see the conflict he struggled with. Magic had yet to make itself known, but the truths they told could not be discredited.

“Leave us,” Sansa commanded.

Arya and Robb protested, but Jon looked at her with an unreadable expression. He cocked his head to the side in question. Sansa merely nodded and stood between the two beds.

“Leave them,” Jon said.

There was another, less persistent round of protests, but they left all the same. Ned Stark was petrified. It was the same look she’d seen in men who saw the dead for the first time. She avoided his gaze, watching as Jon closed the shutters. He paused just outside the door.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No. Thank you.”

“I can find him for you.”

“He’ll make himself known in time. I’ll deal with him then. But Jon....Tell Arya that he’s mine.”

He nodded and closed the door behind him.

Ned and Sansa Stark eyed one another. It was an odd thing to do, no matter the circumstances. It was the first time she chose for a man to see her naked. Resolve strengthened, she untied her dressing gown and tossed it on the bed.

“Sansa-“

“No, Father. You must see if you are to believe us.”

Quickly and efficiently, she pulled the shift over her head and laid it next to her robe. Ned inhaled sharply. She watched his eyes go from the thick scar that had ended her life, to the sinister cuts beneath her breast, and then the bites. Dog bites began at her thighs and worked their way up. The highest was on the side of her hip. Her back wasn’t as painful to show. Joffrey hadn’t hurt her pride as much as Ramsey had.

Sansa dressed before turning around to face her father. Tears ran down his cheeks. He looked like he might be sick. He moved to comfort her but she stopped him with a shake of her head.

“All of this is nothing. Nothing compared to the Others. Lord Stark, you swore to protect the North. If the North falls again, so does man.”

Someone pounded on the door. “Lord Stark, a guard arrived. They’ve found a nights watch deserter.”

“Get dressed,” Ned told his daughter. “We’re going to get your wolf back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for ships, it'll be a few chapters before that happens. Sansa is still recovering from everything before she died and well, recovering from dying itself. I know it's a fantasy/historical setting, but I can't bring myself to do familial smut. I read all sorts of Jon/Sansa and Jon/Dany smut, but I can't write it. I start thinking of my brother and cousins and I just can't do it lol. I actually like the complication of age difference when you've got an adult trapped in a child's body. It's fun to write. That being said, I don't think SanSan will happen anytime soon. Maybe way down the line, but not soon. 
> 
> I might have an original character or two. Also, my canon is a mix of show and book, whatever fits the story. It's just a fanfic so I'm not that worried about it. I think it'll mostly be a Sansa POV, but I might have a few others thrown in there when it's necessary or I get inspired to write as someone else.
> 
> Please leave your comments, reviews or opinions. I'd really like feedback on writing style and techniques, character and plot development, etc. 
> 
> <3
> 
>  
> 
> 8/30/18 - edited for formatting


	3. Wolves, Lions and a Dove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Robert settles in to Winterfell.

Sansa scratched the little direwolf’s ears. There were still six pups. None of the Starks were naive enough to believe that it was an omen for the return of their baby brothers. They took them anyway, unwilling to let the pups die in a ditch. Jon was trying to convince their father that they were meant for him and Benjen. Sansa agreed, going so far as to name her own pup Lady Shaggydog. It would have made Rickon laugh.

This was not the time for grief. There was so much to do, so much to write. Ink stained her hands and arms. Her fingers were cramping. She’d made it known very clearly that it was very stupid to write all of this down, especially with the king riding north. Jon Arryn’s death was not a surprise, but it didn’t make the burden any less difficult for her father to bare.

All four children agreed Ned Stark would absolutely not go to the capital. Jon helped her put things into motion that prevented him from leaving Winterfell. They’d sent a rider with a marriage proposal for the Mormont heir. If she didn’t want the mantle of Lady of Winterfell, Sansa would speak with Lady Cerwyn personally. She was just a stone’s throw away. Jon was writing under the name of their father to the Night’s Watch. They used the deserter as an excuse to ask about the state of things beyond the wall. They would pair it with rumors from Winter’s Town to demand an investigation headed by Lord Stark. Construction plans were underway. Her home would become the home of thousands when the cold winds blew. It was time to repair the abandoned tower and expand Winter’s Town.

Jojen Reed had died the day that Sansa had awoken. It was a cruel and efficient way of sending a message. The Three Eyed Raven had already taken Bran from her. She hated the damned thing. He may be on their side, but she didn’t have to like him.

A shadow fell over her desk. She looked up at her intruder. Robb’s red hair was in a disarray and his fuzzy beard was growing back in. He’d matured into a man over the past week. It was sad to watch his innocence go.

“Sansa, it’s past midnight,” he said needlessly.

“I know. I can never sleep anymore. I just see his eyes.” She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand, the only part not wet with black ink.

Robb pulled a tufted leather chair to the edge of her desk. The candles turned his auburn hair ginger. It made her think of Tormund Giantsbane. The days were hollow without his bawdy jokes and deafening laugh. He was annoying, a bit too much to handle, and the only one who’s spirits never dampened. Brienne was a fool for not taking him.

“What’s he like?” Robb asked.

For a moment, she thought he was talking about Tormund. Then she remembered the burning godswood again. Her thoughts were of nothing but death and the dead.

Sansa frowned as she chose her words. “I don’t really know. Jon’s the one to ask. I only encountered any of them once. We talk about them like they’re another creature in the wild, but they’re smart Robb. I could see it in his eyes. He had a thousand questions running through his mind when he killed me. I could see them all.”

She scribbled those thoughts on a scrap of parchment. She shoved it into a file folder made out of a curious hide. The Citadel was a mystery. She might have liked to go there if they didn’t fear women so much. She’d like to see the day Dany arrived on Drogon. Maybe she could ask her sister to kill a path through the front doors.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that all happened. I’m sorry I didn’t come for you.”

“Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “You can’t apologize for something you haven’t done. It would have been foolish to give up Tywin Lannister’s heir for a daughter anyway.”

“It doesn’t-“

“Robb! The North comes before everyone and everything. It comes before me. It comes before you. It comes before the Westerling girl’s honor. Do not sacrifice the North for anything or anyone.”

Robb blushed and looked at his hands. The silence was long enough that she succumbed to the guilt dancing on her tongue.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I never really blamed you. Only...you have Theon, Arya has Jon, and Bran had Rickon. Loneliness is a fearsome a captor as any, even a mad boy-king.”

“Did you ever find them? Your person?”

“Yes,” she lied, painting a little smile on her face. Just sad enough to be mournful, but bright enough to appear reminiscent. She’d had enough pity from everyone. The story was that Jon, Arya and Sansa had green dreams of the Long Night. The old gods left their scars as a reminder of what needed to be done. The castle whispered at first, but soon forgot it all as their days became longer and busier.

Rob beamed. “Well then, we’ll just have to maneuver them up here. _After_ you get some rest. Come, I’ll walk you to your room.”

Sansa let him help her lock the folders away and get her to her room. Most nights she snuck into Arya’s chamber anyway. This night, she waited until his footsteps faded before she slipped back out into the hall. She made her way to the kennels, picked up Lady, and climbed to her favorite battlement to watch the sunrise.

______

The king’s court was just as she remembered. It was, however, a bit odd to see them all so young and unworried. The wars had aged them more than all of those years had. Conflict waged in her heart when Jaime’s tall, lithe frame appeared in the dining hall. This was the man that had crippled her brother, that fucked his twin sister at every chance, but he was also the man had answered the call when their need was dire. He had so much potential. Who was Sansa to deny him that? She, of all people, knew how hardship and time could bring out the best of someone.

“My brother is handsome isn’t he little dove?” Cersei asked. It was still difficult to hear her voice. She clenched every time the queen spoke to her.

Sansa hadn’t realized she was staring. She was slacking in her tutelage being away from the stinking dregs of the Red Keep. “Yes, your grace.”

With three of their own dead, there was enough room for the children dine at the royal table. Robb sat next to the queen as Father’s heir in lieu of the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa was proud of her brother. Any hatred or disgust that slipped through his mask could be mistaken for the foul Northern disposition that her people were known for. The room was warm from the fires and bodies. The smell was a bit too much, but not nearly as bad as King’s Landing. Winter had a way of smelling crisp and clean.

“You’re a bit too young for him, I’m afraid. Though my son Joffrey resembles him and will grow to be just as handsome.”

Robb choked on his food and collapsed into a coughing fit. The queen discreetly inched away. Arya didn’t hide her laugh. She’d been positively monstrous. She hadn’t even covered up her death scar. She let everyone know that she’d had a vision of her death in the Long Night and she was proud of it. The common folk were whispering about Starks and the Old Gods and warging and witches again. Sansa considered going along with it but decided she didn’t want to appear suspicious after the Lannisters fell tomorrow. _If_ the Lannisters fell tomorrow.

“Yes, your grace,” Sansa parroted.

“You’d like to be queen wouldn’t you?” Cersei asked sweetly.

“No,” Sansa said shortly. She’d been Jon’s regent more than once. It was enough for her. “Starks die when they go south. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. And winter is coming.”

She and the queen glanced over at the direwolves. Nymeria and Grey Wind were sharing a large bone. Lady, to Sansa’s utter horror, had laid at Sandor Clegane’s feet and not budged. He’d been terrified at first, but eventually accepted his fate with grace. Rick, her father’s pup, was playing with Nymeria’s tail. Ned didn’t seem to show any signs of the bond that his children had with their wolves, but he and the pup were fond of one another.

“My sister’s right,” Robb said. “Starks don’t fare well in the South. Every one of them has died.”

“Your father didn’t,” Cersei noted.

Robb looked to where his father was trying to keep the king’s attention away from a serving girl. It was an admirable effort. “Aye, but a part of him died with his sister.”

“You Starks are a grim lot aren’t you?” Cersei asked with a hint of suffering.

“Would you have liked it here, Your Grace?” Sansa asked.

“Pardon?”

“If things turned out differently, if you had to marry my father instead of the king. Would you have liked it here?”

Cersei thought for a moment, her attention settling on Ned and Robert. The Warden of the North wasn’t particularly handsome. Grief hovered over him like a cloud and his finest doublet was severely lacking in ornamentation. The king, by contrast, was fat and drunk and womanizing.

“Ned is a kind man and a good father, but all little girls dream of being queen,” the queen said.

“I shoe as hell dawn,” Arya said through a mouth full of food. “Whassa poin? I ner lean da nord.”

“Girls marry for the honor of their families. If your mother had lived, she would have taught you that. Among other things.”

“Das supid,” Arya said. She swallowed thickly and noisily drowned her goblet of water. It was bad. Even for Arya. “If I wanted to bring honor to my family, I’d just ride into battle. The Starks don’t need to marry someone else for honor anyway.”

Cersei’s smile was devoid of any cheer. “Of course they do. You still need medicines and spices and grain.”

“That’s marrying for trade, not honor. Gold mines run dry but justice and loyalty do not.”

“Excuse me, Your Grace, I’m going to put my sister to bed,” Sansa said loudly.

Robb’s amusement died instantly. He panicked, his blue eyes going wide. Sansa shook her head shortly in a failed effort to communicate that she’d send someone to save him. She jerked her sister out of chair and then the hall. She made eye contact with Theon and jerked her head to the dais on their way out.

“Gods that felt good,” Arya said as they reached the godswood. She leaned back against the weirwood tree. She hadn’t worn a gown since they’d awoken almost a month ago.

Sansa imitated her sister. Lady and Nymeria laid their heads down on in the girl’s laps.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” She asked.

Arya’s smile was wicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sansa has a plan for bringing down Cersei early in the game.
> 
>  
> 
> 8/30: edited for formatting/grammar :)


	4. Bastards and Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa’s plan to destroy the Lannisters are underway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger: abuse and rape begin with **. 
> 
> It’s been years since I read the book but Jeyne Poole’s marriage to Ramsey still sticks with me. I love how GRRM made it in to something very sad instead of going for shock value. I was inspired by that since I survive off of the sadness and despair of others.

The men left for the hunt just after dawn. Sansa waited impatiently in her father’s solar, reviewing plans and numbers. She had already sent out Robb’s marriage proposal and played the hostess to Marcella and Tommen. She hoped the king wouldn’t go too hard on those two. They were innocent of the crimes of their parents and brother. Tommen would take the black and be fostered with the Starks until he was thirteen. Sansa was hesitant to send Marcella to Dorne but the princess was young and Oberyn still lived. He and his brother cherished all children and Ellaria Sand would have no need to avenge his death.

Oberyn was said to be a scholar as much as he was a warrior. Perhaps he could be invited to study the wight if her brothers were successful in bringing another back. He might provide soldiers or be convinced to help Danaerys instead of Aegon. It was too soon for the dragons to be born, but he wouldn’t know that. She’d have to consult with Father and Jon on that one.

Her ministrations were interrupted by the door crashing against the wall. Lady stood to attention in front of the desk. Sansa dropped her quill, adrenaline pulsing through her veins.

“Ser Rodrick,” she said in faux alarm, “is all well?”

“My lady, you must come at once,” he said. Sansa stood and hurried to him, Lady at her heels. “It’s the Kingslayer. He-he- he attacked Lady Arya!”

“Is she alright?” Sansa didn’t have to fake the trembling in her voice. Arya was the soldier on the front line for this battle.

“Seems she twisted her ankle. But that wolf almost took off his sword hand.”

Sansa stumbled. Fate was a strange mistress. “Has Father been sent for? And the maester?”

“Aye, my lady. Lewin is seeing to them in the summer hall. We’ve got the queen there too. The imp didn’t go this morning so he’s been sent for.”

“The Lannister guards?” Sansa asked.

“Most of those camped in the castle are on the hunt. Only a few remain, but we outnumber them a hundred to one.”

“The prince and princess?”

The old knight grimaced.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“Wait, did you say you have the queen in the great hall?”

He spat in disgust. “She was with the Kingslayer.”

“How strange,” Sansa murmured. She turned to the man tasked with guarding her. “Please gather a few men and find the Queen’s children. They should be in the nursery. Don’t fight unless you must, but tail any southern guards that take them.”

The guard bowed and hurried off, his armor echoing through the empty hall.

Sansa and Rodrick entered through the side door that connected the summer hall to the castle. The hall was more of a long room that opened into the courtyard. One wall consisted only of thick stone columns. It was where they met with most common folk and unloaded shipments when the weather permitted. It had been a triage of sorts during the Long Night.

The room was in utter chaos. Arya was yelling insults and throwing whatever she could get her hands on at the queen. A young Winterfell guard was struggling to keep her seated on the table. Cersei Lannister was in a state of undress. She was missing her corset and her gown was open, revealing her shift, which was stained by whatever drink Arya had thrown. Her golden hair was in disarray and she was fighting a Winterfell guard. More Lannisters were trying to get to the queen, but the wall of northerners blocked them from getting through.

The Kingslayer was held down by four men, both Stark and Lannister, while he writhed in pain. It was almost sad that he would lose his hand again. It was like a singer losing her tongue. Nymeria chewed on something red and gold at the end of his table. Sansa realized, with a bit of a laugh, that is was the meat from his wrist. His hand was dangling by a thread, blood pouring from the wound. Lady went to lick it up, but Maester Lewin shooed her off.

Sansa sprung into action and ran to Arya. She hugged her sister tight, demanding what happened and if she was okay and why was the queen not dressed.

“SHE WAS RUTTING WITH HER BROTHER LIKE THE DOGS IN THE KENNELS!” Arya shouted.

A few of the men flinched.

Tyrion’s face as he slipped through all the guards was one for the ages. He was utterly confused and shocked. Sansa could see the moment that sharp mind of his started working. His face went white and he looked like he might vomit. The fallout would be difficult for him. Tywin hated his youngest son, but he may very well be the last Lannister left by the end of the day.

“Arya, silence!” the Maester scolded. “I can’t concentrate with this racket. Lord Tyrion, your belt, please!”

Tyrion only gaped, his face turning green when his mismatched eyes found Nymeria.

“YOUR BELT, MY LORD!”

With shaking hands, Tyrion removed his belt and handed it over. Lewin pulled it tight and buckled it tight above his injured hand.

“Tyrion! My children!” Cersei screeched.

He ran off as fast as he could. Sansa watched him go sadly. He deserved a better family. He was too good for all of them, except maybe the youngest.

A soldier burst through the door to the castle. He skidded to a halt in front of the old maester, handing over a large bag.

“Light a torch,” the maester ordered.

“NO!” Jaime shouted. He moved with renewed strength, causing the men on his back to struggle. “NO! I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all!”

“Ser, it is your hand or your life!”

He wasn’t in a state to understand logic. He fought and fought and fought. Sansa had to look away, the guilt too overwhelming. He only paused when Cersei spoke.

“Jaime!” She said through her tears.

Maester Lewin took advantage of Jaime’s hesitation. His hand fell with a sicken plop in the puddle of blood. The renowned knight instantly collapsed. Lady, true to her name, snatched the body part and laid down very primly in sight of the queen. Lewin tried to get the men help carterize the wound, but all of them were watching the polite direwolf with wide eyes. Cersei went on a new tirade with terms such as “fools”, “whores”, and “witches”. Ser Rodrik sent Sansa a pleading glance.

Sansa obeyed, opening the heavy door for the wolves. Nymeria went first, with Arya’s help, and Lady picked up her new treat to prance out of the room.

“GIVE ME HIS HAND YOU SAVAGE CUNT!” Cersei bellowed, her beautiful face turning a splotchy red.

Ser Rodrik drew himself up in outrage, but Arya beat him to it.

“He’s not going to use it any more,” she said.

Cersei erupted with an intensity that hinted at the insanity lurking within. Sansa took advantage of the distraction and ushered her wolf through the door.

The sound of hooves thundering through the gates sent everyone into a terse silence. It took the fat king an embarrassingly long time to dismount. Lord Stark didn’t wait. He pushed through the lines of men and gaped at the scene before him. He kneeled in front of Arya, asking a thousand questions in a low, rushed voice.

King Robert looked to an angry Arya, to Jaime being force fed a potion, and Cersei’s state of undress. He reached her in three steps and backhanded her so hard that she fell. Ned’s hands tightened on Arya’s.

“Stand, you slut!” He spat. “Stand and face your crimes like the man you say you want to be!”

“Robert!” Ned yelled. “She is still the mother of your children.”

Cersei laughed bitterly. Her green eyes shone with madness like Tyrion’s wildfire on the Blackwater. “No, I am not. I made sure that any black haired child of his never quickened.  
**  
Robert roared so loud it itched at Sansa’s ears. He stomped over and kicked his wife in the stomach. Ned stepped forward to intervene, but Sansa placed her hand on his elbow. She’d not have him die now. It was to sweet of a scene to stop, anyway. Cersei had done nothing to stop Joffrey and his kings guard. She’d done nothing to stop the dead. She’d burned innocents alive, tortured gods knew how many people. Her death would be quick enough.

Ned intervened when Cersei started coughing and heaving. Sansa didn’t approve. How many times had she lain like that in the throne room, waiting for the Hound to appear and help her up? This beating was nothing. Nothing. It was only a fat man. No knights, no hilts, no blunt edges of their swords. They didn’t strip her. They didn’t break the skin on her back with a rod.

Joffrey’s fun faded into Ramsey’s. Suddenly, his pale arms were forcing her into a chair. Theon knelt between her legs, his tears itching at her thighs. No one would stop this. Lady was dead. Sandor was dead. Jon, her last sibling, was hundreds of miles away. It was going to happen. Sansa stopped fighting. Her muscles were still wound so tight that it hurt. Her breathing was coming in heavy whines. She thought of a story instead. She thought of Jenny of the Oldstones, with flowers in her-  
**  
“SANSA!”

She was in Winterfell. In a hall on the ground floor. The late-summer sun flowed through the great columns, painting Jon’s black hair brown. Jon. Jon. Jon. Jon had beat Ramsey into the ground and she’d watched his hounds feast on him.

Sansa scratched at the dog bite on her arm.

“I’m back,” she said quietly.

The wolves were going mad. Lady and Nymeria were pummeling and scratching at the door. Three different howls and a growl sounded behind Jon. She tried to peer around his shoulders, but he stopped her. Her gently steered her out the door and into the hall. She followed him through the stone maze of her home, until they found a courtyard with laundry hanging to dry.

They settled against the wall. Lady, Ghost and Grey Wind sat in her lap and licked at her fingers.

“You can talk me. It’ll help, if you tell someone about it,” Jon said.

“No. Not this.”

“Arya, then. But someone.”

Sansa nodded, not able to meet his eyes.

“Your plan worked,” he said, nudging her shoulder.

Sansa smiled at that. “It did.”

Arya was to follow the twins and catch them in the act. She had to create a ruckus or antagonize Jaime into attacking. It was very doubtful that Arya had even considered the first option. Father had gave them each a guard the week before and Arya had made a point not to shake him off. Sansa was proud. Now, Cersei couldn’t kill the king. It was inevitable that he would drink himself to an early death, but it was okay for now. Tywin would have to be dealt with. That wouldn’t be her problem and he was for more predictable than Cersei or Joffrey. Madness did it have its advantages, she supposed.

“I wish I could speak to Danaerys. Or make Tormund tell me about his bear. Or have Sandor bark at me to suck it up because at least I have all of my face and a bed that fits my legs, but no he does not want to trade beds because he can suck it up like I should be doing.”

Jon’s laugh echoed through the fluttering sheets and tunics. “He once told me I had to get my women slicked up like a baby seal.”

“Gods! No!”

“He’ll be here before you know it. And you’ll rue the day you wished for him.”

Jon stood and held out his hand. He helped his sister up and brought her in for a hug before she could stop him. “Talk to Arya. Dany won’t be here for years to come.”

Sansa nodded and let him pull her back into the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your encouragement!
> 
> 8/30: edited formatting and grammar


	5. Trials of Sons, Wives, and Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei faces the consequences of her actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited to fix a funny typo

Jon led Sansa to their father’s bedchamber. It was different without her mother. There was no joy or love, only the comfort of practicality. The only ornamentation was a family portrait leaning on a table. All she knew of Dacey Mormont was that she was a warrior. Sansa hoped the woman could bring some color to Ned Stark’s life. 

Sansa took a plush armchair and Jon sat in the floor to play with the pile of wolves. Arya had her feet in Robb’s lap on the sofa. Her injured ankle was wrapped in a cloth brace. Ned stood behind them and Benjen leaned against a dresser. His black direwolf snapped and pounced at his boots. It should have been Shaggydog, should have been rolling in the mud with Rickon. Instead, the wolf would be named Lya and live on the Wall. 

“I believed you, but to see it for myself...” her father confided. 

Exhaustion was evident in the drop of his shoulders and bags under his grey eyes. Sansa truly hated the king. Robert Baratheon’s neglectful rule had given the likes of Peter Baelish and Tywin Lannister free reign. He was to blame for the state of things as much as anyone. 

“You didn’t see it for yourself,” Arya teased, shuddering.

“I have questions but I don’t want the answers,” Robb said. 

“If you ask them I’ll marry you to the ugliest woman I can find,” Sansa warned. 

Robb immediately sobered, to Benjen’s amusement. He’d arrived two days after the feast with the answers to Ned’s raven. Jon convinced Sansa to tell him about their awakening and the life before it. Her uncle hadn’t been surprised, just very sad. She still couldn’t stand to see the pity in his eyes. 

The men passed the time planning to treat with Mance. Arya wanted to go, just because she’d never been, but Ned and Benjen didn’t want to have to keep an eye out for her. Robb and Sansa would also stay to begin preparations for the upcoming winter. If all went as planned, the new Lady of Winterfell would be there to help as well. Their discussion circled back to the Lannisters at the mention of recruits. If Jaime went to the wall neither of his sons could. Tommen was a fair candidate for the future, but as Arya poetically said, Joffrey was a worthless piece of shit.

“He’s just a child, Arya,” Ned admonished. _As are you_ , he left unsaid. There were instances when Sansa suspected her father didn’t believe them. 

“Yes,” Sansa spat. “A _child_ that ordered me stripped and beaten in front of his court. A _child_ that had to be stopped from serving me my brother’s head at a royal wedding. A child that ordered _your_ head cut off when he promised mercy. And his mother! His mother killed her husband, your closest friend, the king. She killed thousands when she blew up the Sept of Baelor. His mother-“

Sansa stopped herself. She was standing, yelling down at her father. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This sort of outburst would have gotten her killed once. That was a lesson she needed to remember. The wolf blood had gotten so many of her family killed. It would not do to succumb to that madness now. She was once called the Queen of Winter; the ice in her veins was her warmth.

When she spoke, her voice was flat again. “The way your legs twitched when Ilyn Payne cut off your head haunted my dreams even when I was living a nightmare. I won’t see your honor get you killed again.”

A page interrupted, knocking on the door. The King had ordered a meeting in the great hall. Sansa, to her surprise, didn’t want to go. Her family eyed her with concern. Ned tried to speak, but she led the march across the castle. Robb wordlessly took her arm. The two of them walked together, trying not to trip over the pack of direwolves. They were the size of small dog and only a couple of months old. She hadn’t had the chance to watch them grow. Cersei Lannister had her dire wolf dead and tried to wear the pelt.

King Robert sat at the royal table, half drunk and very angry. Ser Barristan and Ser Arys stood guard on either side. Their intricate armor was an ugly contrast to the simple northern room. The Starks, minus Jon and Benjen, bowed and sat at the nearest benches.  It was a tense, uncomfortable wait. Sansa was almost relieved when the main doors opened. And then Sandor Clegane stomped through. Alone. His steps were calm and rhythmic and his ruined face betrayed no emotion. He knelt before the king. The hair brushed to cloak his scars fell forward, revealing the mottled skin.

“The Hound, the Lannister dog,” the king said. 

“I serve the king,” Sandor rasped. 

“Before or after the Lannisters? Did you know?”

“I suspected,Your Grace. ”

Sansa’s heart leapt her in throat. 

“Yet you didn’t say anything?!” Robert asked, his voice raising. 

“It would have been treason, Your Grace.”

Ned stood and spoke to his old friend. “It’s unbelievable. You can’t fault the man for keeping his silence on this matter. Any good guard keeps the things he sees to himself.”

Robert grumbled something awful. It wasn’t too different from Robb’s belly when it hadn’t been filled in the last half hour. Sandor scowled at the floor, but didn’t refute his unwelcome defense. He’d taught her, in his own way, how to survive amongst these fools. He would make it through this. 

“Where were you summoned from?” Robert demanded. 

“Barracks, Your Grace.”

“Oh, stand already. What were you doing? Getting ready to run back to Tywin Lannister with your tail stuck between your legs?”

“No. The men have started up a betting pool.”

The king stared at the Hound for a solid minute and then burst into laughter.He was in tears before he recovered. “Good Gods. How’s it going?”

“Money’s on Selmy for the Queen’s trial by combat.”

“And who will be her champion? You?” 

“Fuck no. Your grace.”

“You’re not a loyal dog are you?”

“I’m the sworn shield to the crown prince, but the way I figure there is no more crown prince.”

Robert’s mood darkened at that. He and Joffrey were more alike than either of them would admit. Both were petulant, moody boy kings that couldn’t care for themselves, let alone millions of people. Though, Sansa reflected, she was not one to judge. She’d failed too. 

“Your Grace,” Ned pleaded. “The man’s done nothing wrong. He cannot be blamed for the atrocities of the Lannisters.”

“Fine,” The king sighed. “You’re to stay up here though. I don’t want to have to worry about you spying on me on top of everything else. Godsdamnit Ned, you take all the fun out of everything.”

Ned frowned. He was so blind to Robert’s bloodthirst. ‘Killing is the sweetest thing there is,’ the Hound had said. Her father might enjoy it in the heat of battle, but Ned Stark was a simple man who only wanted to be left alone with his family. Sansa did too, but wolves protected their packs. She had a taste for blood and wouldn’t stop until all the creatures in the night were dead. 

“No, stay here,” the king said. 

Sandor froze. She could practically hear the swearing in his head. He spun on his heel and marched over to sit a few feet down from her so that he was facing the mummer’s show. Arya slid the pitcher of wine down to him. Sansa usually didn’t encourage such things, but this would be a long afternoon. The gluttonous king hadn’t chosen the dining hall by coincidence. 

Myrcella and Tommen were next. The children were frightened and sad. Tommen was hunched into his big sister, too afraid to look anywhere but his soft leather boots. They parroted words from their septa, but Robert cut them off when they started to beg for their mother and ‘uncle’. He shortly informed them that Tommen would go to Dorne and his sister would stay in Winterfell. Robert emphasized that they were bastards, only Waters now, and they shouldn’t expect to be treated like royalty. They were escorted out, the youngest whispering, ‘Why can’t I be a Snow? It’s much prettier.’ to his sister.

“Joffrey Waters, Your Grace,” a voice called. 

Joffrey was more disheveled than she’d ever seen him. A streak of dirt marred his golden face and his hair was in disarray. Those green eyes of his were shining like his mother’s. Jaime, brave Jaime, had those same eyes but never that gleam of desperation and greed. 

“Father,” Joffrey spat, bowing slightly. 

“I’m not your father, boy. Your father is your uncle too.”

Joffrey’s jaw clenched in anger. Ned thought her foolish to fear a boy, but when a boy that cut open pregnant cats for curiosity was left unchecked, it was a fearful thing indeed. Mad kings always resulted in a rebellion. First Aerys, and then Joffrey. It was more than her past grievances. The seven kingdoms were at stake and that did not bode well for winter. 

“Where is Mother?” The boy demanded. 

“Rotting in a cell.”

“You’ll die for this.”

Sansa peered down the table. Her father had his eyes closed and his hand massaging his temples. Arya, however, was elated. 

“That’s treason, boy,” the king said. He waved the shifting kings guard to their calm facade. He looked more amused than angry. Sansa empathized. She’d be relieved to find out that Joffrey wasn’t her child too.

“I’LL KILL YOU FOR TREASON!”

The king laughed. “I’m a fat old man and you couldn’t kill me. You’re pathetic. Your father was well on his way to being one of the best swordsmen in the realm at your age.”

“My grandfather will hear of this!” 

“Not before I send him your mother’s head.”

“You’ll not touch the Queen! HOUND! Tell him!”  


The Hound did no such thing. He stared back unapologetically. “Not your dog anymore.” 

Joffrey’s face went from red to purple. It might have been worrying if it were not so funny. Only Tyrion could have drive him to this state before.

“I was going to tell you that you’d be taken to Riverrun but if you keep it up, you’ll go to the gallows with your mother. Now, get out of my sight.”

Sansa hadn’t considered Riverrun. Foolish, maybe, and daft,seeing as she was half Tully herself. In Winterfell, he’d be too close to the wall if Jaime chose to take the black. Besides, they had Theon. 

Arya sniggered as Joffrey was dragged out of the hall by two guards. He was quiet, for once, but it was evident that he was in a rage. She pitied whoever was guarding him.

“Cersei Lannister, Your Grace.” 

Cersei strode down the aisle like a queen. Her golden hair was long and unbrushed, her feet were bare, and still half dressed, yet utterly beautiful. Her pride might have been admirable if Sansa hadn’t experienced the cruelty and arrogance that came with it. Danaerys was a proud woman, but she had pulled herself up from an exile in poverty. Her pride was earned and although she had a temper, she was caring and just. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Robert asked. 

Cersei stuck in her nose in the air and predictably said, “I demand a trial by combat.”  


Robert’s teeth shown gleefully through his dirty, wiry beard. She was not a lion. She was a mouse caught in a trap. 

“Who will be your champion?” 

“Gregor Clegane.”

“The mountain is half a world away. I’m not waiting up here in this muddy shithole for that idiot for three weeks. Who will fight for you?”

Cersei blanched, her lips going thin. “My father will never-“

“Tywin Lannister is a month away.”

“Lannisters always-“

" _Pay their debts._ But you never paid yours. You killed my children so you could fuck your brother!”

“Jaime is twice the man you will ever be!”

“No true man fucks his twin sister!”

“The Targaryens-“  


“The Targaryens needed to keep their dragon blood before they got all their beasts killed. You have no excuse. You’re nothing but a murdering whore. You killed our children and you probably killed Jon Arryn. No matter. Who will fight for you here?”

“I had nothing-“

“SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH. WHO WILL FIGHT FOR YOU?”

“You have no right to call me a whore! You do nothing but fuck whores. You are a sorry excuse for a king. If only I had been wed to Rhaegar instead. But he had to steal the Stark-“

Robert’s chair slammed backwards, but whatever he had to say was cut off by Ned.

“No mention of my sister will fall from your lips again.” 

Sansa had never seen her father so spiteful. It was relieving to see his stoic demeanor slip into rage. It was obvious that her father was a warrior. He was raised to be one, not a lord. He and his small group of men had defeated the Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy. This was the first time in either of their lives that she could see the killer in him.

The former queen sneered. “And you! Who are you to judge me? The honorable Ned Stark with his bastard son and barbaric daughters. Your daughters will grow to be nothing but spinster witches.”

“That shouldn’t be a concern for you, Cersei Lannister,” Sansa said dreamily. “What was it that toothless woodswitch told you? Ah, yes. _’You will not marry the Prince. You will marry a king. He will have twenty children and you will have three. Gold will be their crowns; Gold will be their shrouds.’_ "

Cersei reared back as if the words were a physical blow. Sansa really wanted to goad her with the line about a younger, more beautiful queen but didn’t want to appear suspicious. 

“My children? What will happen to my children?”

“Your children are now bastards. They will have no lands or titles.”

“And Jaime? What about Jaime?”

The king’s lip curled in distaste. “He will either die or take the black. Whichever he decides when he wakes up.” 

It ate at the king to give him that mercy, but the North was difficult enough to maintain as it was. To deny someone the Night’s Watch, especially in the current atmosphere, would be political suicide. 

“When am I to die?” Cersei asked. 

Sansa begrudgingly admitted that it was an admirable choice to accept her fate with dignity. Perhaps she thought Jaime would chose to die with her. She would be a a bigger fool than anyone realizedto think she would get such a kindness. 

“Tonight.”

“So soon?” She choked out. 

“I’ve wanted to wash my hands of you for a long time. You are the most conniving, manipulative bitch I have ever had the burden of knowing. I will not suffer your presence any longer than need be.”

She staggered, but nodded firmly. “I could have loved you once. And then you whispered her name while-“

“Out,” Ned ordered. 

Winterfell guards moved immediately. The king’s men looked to Robert for guidance, but he only shrugged and gulped his ale. Cersei, so much more pale than she had ever been, tried to fight out of their grip and utterly failed. Her jailers marched out behind her.  The room was silent. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath. Then, Robert belched, the crude causing even the kings guard to eye him with scrutiny. 

“Well, should we eat or get her out of the way?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your encouragement!! I get so excited about the stories I think up, so it's so amazing to know that someone else enjoys them as well.
> 
> I really didn't like writing this chapter. Most of the scenes I have written are later on in the story, so it's a little tedious to try to write the transition between now and then. And I just really hate Cersei. 
> 
> I did some chapter mapping, only about halfway through and it was at 23 chapters. I've updated the end count to 50, but that number will most likely change as the story goes on.
> 
> Suprise POV next time! As always, please leave your thoughts and suggestions. :)


	6. Cubs in the Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to fix formatting.

It was not a surprise that his mother was dead. Women were weak. They had a place, a position in the world, and those that tried to rise above it always failed.

  
What Joffrey did find surprising was how boring the inside of her neck was. They told him he shouldn’t watch, he didn’t have to watch, but he wanted to. He would’ve watched no matter who it was. The body was full of so many curiosities: how skin could change from white to violet with one strike, how bone could slice skin from inside the body, how loud their screams got when you plucked on their slimy nerves like a harp.

  
Joff had never been this bored. His new room was very plain. Barbaric, even. Mother always said the Northerners were lacking in culture, but Mother never knew what she was talking about. For once, she was right. The Red Keep was extravagant with its forgotten murals, gilded furniture, and elegant ladies. There was only one true lady in Winterfell. She was beautiful and graceful. Her strength, a steel hidden by porcelain, was rare in the weaker sex. Breaking her would be his greatest work yet.

  
His plain ugly door swung open. A short man balanced a tray of food and water in his hands. Before Joffrey could yell at him to leave, that he didn’t want their boring Northern food, the servant kicked the door closed. He dropped the tray rather clumsily. Joffrey had never wanted to hit someone more.

  
“Shut your mouth and put these on,” the guard snapped. He tossed a lid aside to reveal a bundle of clothing. He pulled more out from under his shirt.

  
“How dare-?!”

  
“An old lion by the name of Tywin sent me. If you want to live you’ll put that on and follow my every order. Aye, Little Lion. Every. Order. You might be the prince but you know nothing about sneaking around. I have no qualms about leaving you here to die so you best get on with it.”

  
Joffrey switched into his new clothes. “Why are you so ugly?”

Even his voice was ugly. His beady eyes went in different directions and one of his arms was bigger than the other. 

  
“Nobody wants to look at an ugly man. Better for sneaking. Now pull that hood up and keep your wormy lips closed.”

  
Joff’s plans for killing the man were cut off by the sight of slumped Winterfell guards on either side of his door.

  
“Are they dead?” He asked excitedly. “Did you kill them?”

  
“Shut the fuck up,” the man hissed.

  
The prince calmed himself by imagining what it would feel like to take this man’s head. Odd that someone with a strange gait would be so sneaky. He knew the place, though. They slowly made their way through hidden stairways and dark halls. In some places, he couldn’t see his own hand. Eventually he had help the man open an old, heavy door that hadn’t been touched in ages. Joffrey had to work very hard to not touch the man.

  
Moonlight shone on the thick grass. After doing a quick check, they ran across the lawn to the tall trees. Joffrey, of course, reached the trees first. He watched the man do his odd limping run.

  
“Are you a dwarf? Do you know my unCAH!” A deep heavy pain blossomed through his stomach, right where the man punched him. Joffrey bared his teeth.

“You can’t touch a prince,” he hissed.

  
“I’ll leave you right here, you little shit. I don’t care neither way.”

“I’ll have your head for that!”

The dwarf rolled his eyes and slipped into the trees. Joffrey ran after him. It was too dark, there were too many of the damn things, and he’d never had to run like this before. He was just about to scream for the idiot when he materialized in front of him. It was impossible. Joffrey didn’t like the North. He’d burn it all. There were too many strange things lurking in the trees. The place was unnatural. Mother said it was important to pretend he didn’t mind, but he’d tell them all. Let them try to rebel. He’d make every one of them sing like a colorful bird from the Summer Isles.

  
He was led to one of the stone walls that protected the castle. The masters said that Bran the Builder built this place. It was no matter. Any wall could crumble. The men lifted a bundle of ivy to reveal a small hole. He was a prince! How dare he suggest he do something so belittling!

“Princes don’t crawl!”

“They do if they want to go home.”

Joffrey cursed and lowered himself to his stomach. He pulled himself into the gap with his arms. His mastery of swordsmanship surely aided in this despicable act. Plans of war against the North kept him motivated, kept him pulling himself further through the wall. It was slimy and other things crawled in the night. Finally, after an eternity in what was sure to be a new eighth hell, Joffrey emerged into the night.

  
He ran, ran, ran from the shadow of the wall and into the darkness of the trees. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop He was free. Free to go to grandfather and then travel back North to kill them all. He ran, laughing until he couldn’t breathe. He doubled over, clutching the stitch in his ribs and realized he was alone and lost in the forest.

  
Something crashed into him from behind and his face crashed onto the forest floor. He spat out dirt, trying to turn, but something hard dug into his back. Someone pulled his arms, twisting them so much that he had to cry out. Cold iron cuffs encased his wrists.

  
Joffrey’s captor flipped over. It was the dwarf, his rescuer! Whatever in the seven hells he was doing, he would regret it.

  
Then, the man did something strange. He reached up to scratch at his neck, just below his ear. And he _pulled_. He pulled his fucking face off.

  
Joffrey had never felt fear. It was cold. It itched at his insides, told him to run. He tried, he did, but Arya Stark’s tiny foot stomped on his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, but it was so much fun to write. Hope you enjoyed it.


	7. Rage

Jon knew. He and Sansa turned to glare at Arya as one. Ned Stark was pacing across his solar, stopping to glance out a window into the morning sun. He’d just explained that two Winterfell guards were presumably poisoned and Joffrey had disappeared. It was a pretty, warm day. The bright sun highlighted the dark circles under Arya’s eyes.

“You’ve made this so much more difficult,” Sansa chided.

Her sister shrugged, completely unremorseful. “You said yourself that the true threat is in the North.”

Sansa was annoyed, but not upset. Not truly, but Tywin Lannister would not give up his power so easily.

“Tywin Lannister is going to come looking for him,” Sansa warned.

“He would’ve started a war anyway. At least now I know Joffrey is dead and Tywin’s wasting his efforts trying to find him.”

Sansa studied her little sister. She didn’t know if Arya’s choice was so calculated or well-thought excuses for an episode of bloodlust. There was no need for a lecture. If Arya had come forward, Jon would have argued against it and she would have done it anyway. Sansa was guilty of keeping him in the dark once. Arya knew all of this, so it was wise to pick their battles.

“He can’t be found?” Sansa asked.

Arya scoffed.

“Leave us,” a deep, stern voice said.

The girls looked at their father. His solemn face was fixed on Arya’s. Though Sansa was a woman grown, the harsh emotions in his eyes made her mouth go dry. Wordlessly, she left with her brothers, all of them giving their sister a look of pity. Jon went to train, presumably to help Arya or Father work off any frustrations after their conversation. Sansa was thinking of hiding away in the west tower to avoid her septa when Robb asked her to walk with him. They took a long, sunny path through their home on the way to the godswood.

“Has Arya truly make things more difficult?” Robb asked in a low voice.

“Probably, “ Sansa admitted. “But she’s right. And she was with Tywin for a while, so she knows him better than I. She knows not to underestimate him. And there will be more important battles to pick with Arya, I think.”

“When was she with him? I thought she was training,” Robb asked, speaking at a normal volume. It would be nearly impossible for someone to know who they were speaking of. It could be a history lesson for all the eavesdroppers knew.

“She was a prisoner in Harrenhall when he saw through her disguise as a boy and made her his cupbearer. Eventually, he figured out that she was a noble northern girl, but he never suspected her true identity. She escaped with the help of a mentor that sent her across the Narrow Sea.”

He was quiet for a while, his auburn brows furrowed as he thought. “It was the Faceless Men, wasn’t it?”

“That’s her story.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes. Danaerys said wizards in a city named Qarth who drink a wine that turns their lips blue imprisoned her three dragons. The world is huge. I might like to see it one day.”

“How did she get them back?”

“Dragons eat cooked meat. She was teaching them to burn their own food.”

Damn. I hope I get to meet her.”

Sansa grinned. Danaerys had an attraction to wild, handsome men. They would be a good match if Jon was still uneasy about their relationship. However, it was as Robert said; the Targaryens intermarried to keep their dragon magic. The dragons had an affinity to those with just a drop of their blood, but only a true Targaryen had a strong bond with the creatures. There wasn’t much information on the topic left in the world. There weren’t many Targaryens left either....

“I need to go to the Wall,” Sansa realized.

Robb stopped just inside the castle doors. “What?!”

“Their library may have more books and all of Samwell’s research is gone. And Maester Aemon Targaryen is very old. He may know hints of things that are no longer recorded.”

“That sounds like incredibly dull work.”

“It can’t be too terrible.”

He cocked an eyebrow in question as he opened the door. They didn’t make it two steps out of the castle before a young page was on them.

“Lord Robb, there are women here for you,” the page said excitedly. He couldn’t be much older than Arya.

“Excellent! Best news a man can hear.”

“The Lady Maege Mormont and the Lady Dacey Mormont await you in the godswood.”  
“Never mind,” Robb sighed.

“Why the godswood?” Sansa asked as she gestured for the page to lead the way.

“Lady Maege said so. She’s kind of scary.”

The page didn’t lie. She was indeed a bit frightening. Lady Maege Mormont was a formidable woman older than Ned Stark. She was as short as Arya and had the same scrutinizing eyes as Olenna Tyrell. Her grey and black hair was braided simply. Maege’s daughter was more handsome than beautiful. She was six feet tall, with dark hair that fell to her hips and a mace strapped to her belt. Both of them wore leggings instead of skirts. They looked incredibly Northern in front of the heart tree.

The ladies bowed, but Robb cringed and waved his hand dismissal. “Please don’t. You’re to be my mother, I hope.”

Dacey flashed her startling white teeth in a wide smile. It made her very pretty. “Aye, I am.”

“I would like to speak with you on that matter,” Sansa said.

Maege eyed Sansa from head to toe, but remained quiet.Sansa took that as a sign to continue. She glanced at the tree, wondering if Bloodraven or Bran were listening in.

“Bear Island is further north than we are, so I’m sure you’re aware that winter is near and it will be long and hard. There are frightening whispers north of the wall that my father is going to investigate, but we have reason to believe that they are all too true. It will be a busy time and as the Lady of Winterfell most of those duties would fall to you. Are you prepared for it?”

“Yes,” Dacey said. She became apprehensive and took a step towards Sansa. She didn’t quite tower over her, but her demeanor was impressive nonetheless. “Bear Island is smaller and more isolated, but we run it well.”

“No, forgive me, it’s that marrying my father would call for many sacrifices on your part. We wouldn’t stop you from fighting, but you would have responsibilities other than those of a warrior. My father is going north of the Wall, but you would have to stay in Winterfell instead of exploring new territories. You would have to leave your family, Lady Dacey. For decades, maybe, if they don’t travel here for the winter. That is a sacrifice I am not willing to make for marriage, not with war ahead.”

Lady Maege gazed at Sansa with an unreadable expression. “Who are we warring with, girl?”

The term made Sansa bristle. She was not a girl. She had lived twenty hard years. The Mormonts had no way of knowing that, of course. It still hit a nerve.

“The dead, my lady.” Sansa cast another nervous glance at the heart tree. The Mormonts followed her gaze.

“Do the old gods speak to you? Or do you follow those of your mother?” the older woman asked.

“The old gods speak to me more than I would like.”

The leaves rustled in the still air. A shiver ran down Sansa’s back.

“They’re listening to us now,” Robb said.

“What do they say?” Lady Dacey asked.

“I may tell you one day. Not now, not while the king is here. Lady Maege, what do you know of the old ways? Of the Long Night?”

She frowned. “Nothing more than your Old Nan. Don’t look so surprised boy, everyone north of the Neck knows Old Nan. She was old even when I was a child. We’re the wrong island for that. Have you thought to write to Skagos?”

Sansa blinked in surprise. Everyone had overlooked the island thus far, something their inhabitants were probably glad of. Though pledged to Winterfell, the Skagosi didn’t leave their island. The Skagosi were said to feast on the flesh of men, ride massive beasts into battle, and sacrifice humans to the old gods. Sansa had encountered variations of all three of their monstrous sins. They couldn’t be worse than anything else she had faced.

“No, I haven’t. Thank you.”

Robb groaned. “Please don’t mention that around Arya. She’ll take off without a word to live among them.”

“She’s in enough trouble as it is. We were dismissed so that father could have a word with her.”

Dacey chuckled. “What has she got herself into?”

Robb and Sansa exchanged dark looks.

“We’ll explain as we take you to father,” Robb said.

“I’ll stay here. I’m avoiding the septa,” Sansa said.

He smiled mischievously. “You’ll owe me.”

Sansa waited until they left to begin. Her guard was standing watch with his back to her. It was enough to believe she was alone. Sleep did not come easily to her. When it did, she did not share the wolf dreams her siblings had described. She’d tried to ‘reach’ Lady in her bed and on her favorite battlement since the wolves were brought to Winterfell. Every theory she tested failed. Sansa was not ashamed to admit that the gods scared her, but warging seemed to come from their power. So, her latest test was to attempt it in the godswood.

She sat stiffly with her back to the weirwood tree. It was smoother than the others. It didn’t scratch her skin through her dress. Sansa closed her eyes and willed her mind to empty. It was a familiar practice that kept her sanity in King’s Landing. They said the old gods couldn’t reach that far south, but the air had a static like a storm on the horizon.

Sansa took deep breathes until all of her planning and worries drifted back to a corner of her mind. There was another corner that housed dark things. They tried to escape when the rest of her mind was quiet.

She batted the fiends away, scowling, and tried again.

There.

Something...warm, almost, to left. And another to her right. Like a good memory waiting to be turned over.

The one on the right was more familiar. It was the smell of pine and the moment before a snake struck.

The one on the left was closer. It was stronger. Reaching for it was like meeting Drogon’s eyes.

_Rage. Pure, undiluted rage courses through her veins._

_She is boxed in. Always in a fucking box. She isn’t meant for a cage. She is a king. She is meant to claim the world with the wind in her hair and the grass under her feet. Everything except for her and him_ are _weak and there’s something new in the cage. She can’t see it, but she knows it’s there. She can’t strike it. Can’t bite it._

_Fury overtakes her._

_The fools come._

_They always try to calm her, tame her, stick her in the fucking box. Only he is strong enough. He knows the blinding anger. The injustice of it all. The power and strength that rots when it is abandoned._

_One of the weak ones stands in front of her cage. It’s scared. She can smell its fear.Fear is contagious. Fear is delicious._

_She turns her head to look down on it. It raises its long arms in supplication. How dare it. How dare something so small, so weak, try to calm her._

_She tries to hurt it, to show it where it belongs, but the cage keeps her back. It smells. It is loud and crowded. It’s so dark. Always so dark. She doesn’t belong here. She belongs under the sun and in the fields with the world rolling on endlessly. Ripe for the taking._

_The scared thing yelps and scurries away. Its cries make the others like her uneasy. She hates the others. They are dull and dim. They like their cages. They are content to serve, to obey. Spineless fools._

_The new thing won’t leave. Trying to harm her, claim her. She doesn’t know. She wants it gone. Away, but she can’t see it to scare it off._

_She cries for him. Leather and death and rage and power barreling through the world. The others fear him too, even his own -_

 “LADY SANSA!”

Sansa’s face stung. The sun filtered through the red leaves above her. It made her think of blood and death. It brought a smile to her face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter outlining has ‘big daddy Baelish creeps’ on too many chapters.
> 
> 8/30: edited formatting and grammar


	8. Protectors

The stables were in an uproar. A small crowd was gathered around two figures. From her spot in the back, Sansa could only see Sandor Clegane’s lank, dark hair bobbing above the swarming people. The stable master, Kory, was screaming at the warrior that his demented horse needed to be put down. Clegane argued back that maybe he should put the stable master down. He didn’t reach for his sword though, so Sansa snuck around the onlookers to enter through the side door.

The horses were nervous. They flicked their heads and stomped their feet with worry. She only had eyes for the massive warhorse raging in the back stall. Stranger bucked, screamed and kicked against the thick wood. His nose flared as she stood outside his stable. He contemplated her scent, deemed her not a threat, and carried on with his tantrum. He was just as massive and terrifying and beautiful as she remembered.

Sansa closed her eyes and reached for him again. This close, this passionate, the presence in her mind was throbbing. She tried to wrap her soul around his, like a river flowing over a rock, without going in. He froze then started raging anew. She was thrown out of his psyche.

She clenched her jaw and tried again. Finally, after three more tries, her hold was so strong that he couldn’t fight it. Her celebration was short lived. Something crashed loud enough to hurt her ears, or maybe Stranger’s, and she was forced back into her own body. She scowled at the man lumbering toward her.

“Are you stupid, girl?” Sandor Clegane yelled. “Do you want to die?”

Maybe, she thought. The horse whinnied at the sound of his master’s voice. Then, straw rustled under a heavy step and Kory came through to investigate the new ruckus. Sansa’s arrival almost sent him into a fit. He round face was beet red and a vein was bulging in his temple.

“Leave!” Sandor ordered.

“I can’t,” she said.

The response was unexpected. He forgot his anger, just for a moment, and blinked at her. It was only for a moment. His anger was like a fever rolling off of his body. Either he had unlocked a new level of hatred unforeseen in humanity or she was still feeling the effects of Stranger’s mind.

“Why,” he ground out.

“I think I may have warged into him.”

The stable master gaped. His wide eyes went from her to the horse and back again.

“What?”

“Warging. Skinwalking. Skinchang-“

“WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO THAT?!”

“Ser!” Kory cut in, appalled. Sansa raised her hand to keep him out of it. It was refreshing to be yelled and cursed at. The wildlings couldn’t get here soon enough.

“I was looking for Lady. My wolf. There was something else, something louder.I didn’t mean to, not really. I thought if I maybe touched it, I would know what it was.”

Sandor stared down at her with his blank look. She wondered, not for the first time, what all he had seen as his time with the Lannisters to perfect that apathy. He flinched uncomfortably when she didn’t turn away. Long ago, she’d thought it sad that everyone was too afraid to meet his eyes. Now, she understood. I’m King’s Landing, they were afraid to catch her traitor’s status like it was a plague. In Winterfell, they avoided her out of shame and pity. That was the worst of her torment. Everyone could hear her screams, though she tried very hard not to.

“Aren’t you scared girl?” He rasped, putting his hands on his hips and rolling his shoulders forward.

She wanted to sigh. Or laugh. He wouldn’t scare her, no matter how much posturing he did.

“No,” she said truthfully.

He laughed bitterly. “Then you’re a fool.”

“Someone once told me that killing is the sweetest thing there is. My father is a killer. My brothers are killers. My sons will be killers. There are worse things than killers in the world.”

Ramsey Bolton’s laugh echoed in her ears. She went blind for a moment. All she could see was his wide, joyous smile. His blue eyes sparkling at her pain. She tried to look away, to go back to the story she was making up, but he squeezed her chin hard enough to bruise. Then he kicked her legs apart and-

“Lady Sansa?” Kory asked.

He was staring at her with fear. The Hound was unwavering in his emotionless mask, but he never stopped watching. She stepped back, scratching at the scar on her arm.

“Could you give Clegane and I a moment alone, please?”

The stable master hesitated, but bowed and backed away. It was easier to breathe with just the two of them. She let her cold facade drop.

“I can’t leave Stranger yet. I can feel it. I can’t leave our connection like it is,” she said worriedly. “I think. I don’t know. It can’t bode well to have an open, unsettled connection with a horse that thinks it’s a dragon.”

“You don’t know?! Why in seven hells are you slipping into beasts’ minds if you don’t know?!”

“I told you, I didn’t mean to, not him anyway. And the wildlings will be here soon. They can help.”

Sandor made a strange noise between a bark and a rasp. “You think you can study under some ugly savage?”

“I’m dealing with you well enough.”

He crossed his arms and stared down at her haughtily. “You’re not fucking with my horse.”

“Sa-Clegane. He and I will be together too often for the connection to be so broken. It’s dangerous for all of us.”

“You will not be around my horse.”

“I’ve seen the future.”

“Piss on your future.” He spat something thick and yellow onto the floor.

Sansa bit on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She would never know how he and Arya didn’t kill one another during their time on the road.

“That trick isn’t going to work on me. I grew up with brothers and a sister who may as well be a brother. I’m going to try it either way. I would rather you supervise, but I can do it alone if you’d like.”

He ground his teeth. After casting her a dark look, he slumped onto a bench, muttering about how he should’ve let the king have his head instead of freezing his balls off with the looney Starks. Sansa ignored him and sat as far from him as possible. She’d rather not warg into Sandor Clegane on accident. If a thing were even possible.

She had a smooth hold on Stranger in only two tries. Calming him didn’t work. He threw a fit every time she tried to soothe his mind. She hadn’t expected it to. Calm wasn’t in his nature. It wasn’t in hers anymore, either. She appeared calm, but it was all cold anger. Stranger’s was fire, Sandor’s was a storm and Sansa’s was ice. Her hatred had hardened around her bones like an armor. It was a silent and patient wrath that would wait a thousand lifetimes to drink its fill.

She let that icy bloodlust seep into Stranger. She let it lick his flames, caress his furor. Slowly, the horse recognized her as one of his own. A different kind of hateful, but just as hungry for violence as he was.

Slowly, a smile spread across Sansa’s face. It hurt. She couldn’t remember the last time she smiled.

“He calls me the cold one,” she said.

“You did it?” Clegane asked.

“Yes. He calls you destruction.”

He purses his scarred lips. “That didn’t take long.”

“I was almost done when you interrupted.”

“Interrupted, my ass. You were fucking with my horse.”

“I hope that’s all she was fucking,” a new, tired voice said. Jaime Lannister was haggard and pale, but he still managed to radiate arrogance. It didn’t hide the nasty black eye. “It’s easy to get caught fucking things you shouldn’t in this place.”

“Kingslayer,” Sandor said as a greeting.

“A traitor twice over,” Jaime said with false bravado.

“No you aren’t,” Sansa said, donning her unfeeling mask. “You were protecting the city. You have much to be ashamed of but that was your bravest task.”

The Kingslayer clenched his jaw. He stared at Sandor questioningly, who just shrugged.

“Remember that, Jaime, when you lose heart. We are more than our sins.”

“I just tried to kill your sister, Stark.”

“And I will never forgive you for that. But we need brave men Jaime Lannister. You are nothing if not brave.”

Benjen entered behind him, eyeing the three of them curiously. He shouldered past Jaime to cup her cheek. “Be careful, niece. We’ve lost too many of our kin.”

“And you, Uncle.”

He kissed the top of her head and went off to prepare his horse.

“Farewell Clegane. Hounds might fare better with wolves than lions,” Jaime said.

Sandor didn’t say anything. The only indication that he heard the other man was a small nod of his head.

“And you,” Jamie said lowly. “Tell the bastard to watch himself. He’s got Rhaegar’s nose and brow, did you know that? I saw it when gave me this parting gift.”

He waved his stump, the bandages blossoming red, at his eye. 

Sansa’s heart lurched. She watched him stride off after Benjen. _Kill him,_ a voice said. _Protect your brother; kill him._ She couldn’t, not anymore. Killing him would be suicide now. She had missed her chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was short but I figured I would go ahead and post it instead of dividing the chapter into half. A couple of more chapters and we’ll get to  
> the good stuff!


	9. Loyalty

Sansa made her way through the castle with a newfound energy. Clegane followed her to the castle, giving her a blank look before they parted ways. He hadn’t been close enough to hear Jaime’s words, but he didn’t like a grown man frightening a little girl. Little girl.She thought she had stopped hating her body. Once, she hated the attention that came with her beauty. Then, she hated her scars and all they represented. Now, she hated its youth. Her body was yet another cage. She thought of Bran at that, ignoring the pang in her chest.

Ned Stark’s solar was empty. He was probably off with the king or if he was truly stupid, Lady Dacey. Robert wanted to leave; Winterfell wanted him gone. The great oaf would want to watch his oldest friend get married. It was best not to parade the their around the castle.

Sansa did not have the patience for either of them just yet. Instead, she stacked fresh parchment on the desk- it was strange not to think of it as hers- and began planning. She would burn it all before she left. Still, she was infinitely grateful to have a visual representation of her thoughts. Prisoners weren’t allowed such privileges.

The servants had already came in to light candles when the door opened. Jon stepped inside with a small smile.

“I thought you’d be in here. Father was asking for you but I kept quiet.”

Sansa ignored him. It was better to be the Lady Stark than to reveal any of her thoughts and emotions when she was this upset. Instead, she studied the notes and family trees strewn across the desk. Margaery would marry the king instead of Robb now, even if he was old enough to be her father. Robb would marry a northern girl instead of some southern lady for grain. He’d be very happy about it. Perhaps Margaery would too. 

“They’re all on their way up here. What are you doing?”

“The scheming you despise.”

“I thought we already had a plan.”

“It’s not good enough.”

She could feel him watching her. It didn’t make her itch or nauseous like Peter’s stares used to. It just made her annoyed.

Be glad he’s here to annoy you, she chided herself, then immediately scowled at the thought. The reason for their hard work was to make sure he stayed alive to annoy her. It wasn’t senseless to be mad at him for endangering himself.

The rest of her family shuffled in. She watched them enter, taking in the small smiles and fool bellies. Dacey Mormont was last. Sansa had to work very hard at not rolling her eyes at her father. The bride to be examined her betrothed’s solar curiously. It was cozy, in the staunch way only Winterfell could be. There were plush cushions on every bit of sturdy wood furniture. It was organized, but not meticulous. Books and maps were haphazardly thrown on side tables and windowsills. The godswood tapestry on one wall was the only bit of decoration in the room. Margaery would have thought it dull and sad.

“Sansa, you weren’t at dinner,” her father said as he helped Dacey into the chair beside Arya and Jon. He stood behind his betrothed while Robb plopped in Arya’s lap.

Suddenly, she was reminded of the Tower of Joy.

‘I looked for you at the Trident.’

‘We were not there.’

She swallowed thickly. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“Did Clegane ...upset you? I heard you were in the stables with him earlier.”

Sansa sighed. “Clegane is the only one that doesn’t upset me anymore. Though I doubt he’d say the same for me. I warged into his horse.”

The room erupted into noise. Arya and Robb stopped their wrestling match, Robb sliding onto the floor. There were congratulations from Arya and Jon. Robb excitedly shouted questions. Dacey asked them too, with far less fervor. Ned just looked worried.

“Why?” He asked.

“I don’t know. I was trying to find Lady. Maybe he’s another one of mine. Maybe we were both angry at the same time. Maybe he’s just so...loud that he drowns our other animals.”

“Just don’t warg into Clegane,” Arya said with a snort.

“Did that upset you?” Ned pressed on. His concern was rather annoying, but still very sweet.

“No. Jon did.”

Jon acted as though she had hit him. ”What did I do-“

“Jaime Lannister was in the stables,” she cut him off.

His shoulders dropped just an inch, but he didn’t back down. “I won’t apologize for it.”

“Dacey, could you leave us, please?” Sansa asked.

“No,” Ned cut in sternly. “She is family now.”

Sansa wanted to throw something at her father. He was infuriatingly foolish sometimes. She tried a different tactic. She remained calm and unblinking as she stared into her father’s eyes.

“Jaime said Jon needs to watch himself. Apparently, he has Rhaegar Targaryen’s nose and brow. He noticed when Jon punched him in the face. Repeatedly, by the likes of it.”

Ned winced. He went so far as to step in front of Jon, as though to shield him from his betrothed. Dacey was too confused to do anything. It was almost funny.

“He tried to kill Arya. You didn’t mind when I shoved my fist into Ramsey’s face repeatedly.”

It was obvious that Jon regretted the words as soon as he said them.

“Sansa-“ h the began softly.

Sansa acted as though he hadn’t spoken. She shifted her eyes from his face to her father’s in dismissal.

“Tywin Lannister will not let his only son waste away on the Wall. We should have let Jaime die,” she proclaimed.

“He has the Imp,” Robb said. He hadn’t moved from the floor. He rested his back against the leg of Arya’s large chair.

“All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes,” Jon said softly.

“He’s not your bastard,” Dacey said in awe. “He’s your sister’s.”

“He’s not anyone’s bastard,” Sansa corrected. “He is Rhaegar’s heir.”

All of the Starks gave her betrayed, exasperated and amused looks.

“What? She’s family,” Sansa said confusedly, dropping back into her King’s Landing role. The stupid, simple little girl.

“Sansa,” her father scolded.

“We’re becoming lax,” she said coldly. “We mustn’t think we’re safe because we’re in Winterfell with our family. We must remain alert and vigilant. Winter is coming, yes, but the South is more dangerous now. The last time we were pulled into their games our house was ruined. It’s more than your lives or your pride or your honor. If we fall, man falls.”

“You’ve become more grim than Father,” Robb said scathingly.

“Does this mean I get to kill Jaime?” Arya asked.

Dacey chuckled, under the very wrong impression that she was joking.

“Do you really want to?” Sansa asked, genuinely curious. She doubted it. If her sister wanted him dead, she would have killed him already.

Arya’s eyes went unseeing as she considered it. Is that what I look like when I warg? Sansa wondered. Bran’s eyes went white, but he was more than a warg.

“Don’t,” Jon sighed. “I wanted to go to the Wall anyway. Robb told me you wanted to go, Sansa, but I’d like to spend time with Maester Aemon.”

“Why?” Ned asked.

“Research,” Robb said with a sour face.

“I can keep an eye on the Kingslayer and wait for you there, Father.”

“When are we leaving?” Arya asked.

“You’re going?” Sansa asked.

“You’d know that if you weren’t sulking around like Jon does,” her sister replied.

Sansa couldn’t bring herself to smile back, but she was very glad for Arya. “Don’t do anything stupid. Think before you act, Arya. And don’t die. We’ll have fun together in King’s Landing.”

“King’s Landing?!” Ned snapped.

“The king needs a new queen. Preferably a rich, pretty one that can give him an heir. It’ll be Margaery Tyrell and he’ll want Ned Stark there.”

“We discussed this,” Robb said in his lord voice. It wasn’t very effective from his silly position. “Father is not going South.”

“I know. It’s why King Robert will have to settle for his heirs.”

“How do you know all for this?” Dacey asked. She was impressed but obviously confused. Her expression reminded Sansa a bit of Brienne.

Sansa sighed “Someone else tell her. I’m going to bed.”

She stood, smoothed her skirts and gathered her papers. She tossed them all in the fire on her way out.

______

 

The King left without much fanfare just after dawn. Sansa didn’t bother dressing up for the occasion. His court was too anxious and ready to leave to notice. Robert Baratheon scowled at the light snowflakes drifting onto his hands as he thundered through the gates.

“Poor horse,” Robb sighed.

The Starks, and Dacey Mormont, watched as the last cart wheeled its way out. Robb clapped into the silence, his Tully face grim. A couple of men laughed and a woman shouted ‘Hear, hear’. It was slow, but eventually, Winterfell was cheering. A young washerwoman set her basket down, her red face lit with joy. Guards hit their swords against their shields. Sandor Clegane watched it all from the shadows nearby, his twisted mouth pulling up at the corners.

Then, Nymeria howled into the grey morning. The pups were off to the sode, playing out their morning. Her pack mates followed soon after, except for Ghost, but even his red eyes were alight with fervor. The castle grew quiet. Anticipation, pride and violence settled over the yard.

Sansa broke out into chills that had nothing to do with the snow. This was the North. This what it meant to be a Stark. She would die for it a thousand times over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfic and I have to say that it’s a lot more difficult that I thought it would be. With books, you can write scenes in any order and rearrange them later. You can go back and add details or change the time span. This is such a good writing exercise. I’m learning so much about the way I write. 
> 
>  
> 
> For instance, when I began this chapter, I got an idea for the end of the last chapter. Instead of just “Jaime said lowly” it could have been something about him invading her space (throwback to Baelish), his breath on her neck like the lover she’s never had even though she’s not a maiden, and the irony of how there was a pretty Knight close enough to kiss and he’s threatening her family (she thinks, but really he was genuinely warning her) and an ugly non knight that has done nothing but protect and she can’t touch him. 
> 
> Writing fanfic has its perks too. The best is immediate feedback. Writing is a lonely craft and it can get disenheartening when you’ve worked on one thing for months. So thank you guys so much for reading! 
> 
> TL;DR Lyanna keeps autocorrecting to Luanda lol


	10. Cages

TWO MONTHS LATER

* * *

 

 

Sansa kept herself too busy to fret. It was strange sort of peace. The Mormont women were a nice distraction when Sansa’s mind became overcrowded. Dacey was a gregarious, surprisingly graceful woman. Best of all, she treated Sansa like a woman grown. She had believed their travesties without hesitation. In fact, she seemed relieved to have been given an explanation of their odd behavior. Jon and Arya never clarified which, if any, details they’d told, but Dacey failed to treat her like a child after that night.

It was a rare sunny day, too sunny to listen to Septa Mordane drone on in the castle. Her father’s court was very informal. He and Dacey sat at the head of the summer hall and listened to whomever was presented. Sansa was off to the side, her basket of silk and a sewing kit at her feet. Lady was chewing on a bone from a boar. Sansa was still unable to warg into her direwolf. She’d tried a blackbird and a kitten too, but only Stranger was within her grasp.

It wasn’t long before Robb, trailed by Grey Wind and Rick, caught sight of them as he walked from the training yard. He ruffled her hair and pulled up an old stool. Avoiding Theon and Robb was easy when they were all so busy. Half of the northern lords and their men had already settled in.

Their father asked his children for their opinions often when they came to watch the meetings. Sansa enjoyed it even if they seemed a bit frightened by her. She wasn’t as cheerful as Robb anymore. He was chatting away with a farmer about material imports for more glasshouses when a guard interrupted.

“Lord Bolton has arrived in Winter Town, my lord. He rode ahead of his men,” he announced.

Every muscle in Sansa’s body turned to stone. She pinched her needle so hard she thought it might break.

“He wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow,” Sansa said numbly.

“Here, I’ll take you in,” Robb said, standing beside her.

There were already shouts from the guards and the sound of horses coming to a halt.

She had to move. She needed to leave, but her body resisted. It was still paralyzed in fear. Her heart was going so fast she thought it might burst.

“Lord Bolton and Ramsey Snow, my lord,” the guard said.

Sansa knew shouldn’t look. She shouldn’t do anything to draw attention to herself, but she was a rabbit before a wolf. Father and son were folding their riding gloves. Their strange, pale eyes were ghastly in the bright sun. They kneeled almost in synchrony. They looked very alike, except that Ramsey’s dark hair curled at the ends while his father’s was pin straight. She knew it smelled like his lavender soap. She knew what it felt like against her ear.

“He wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow,” she said breathlessly.

Robb cast a frightened glance at her tone. She looked at him, eyes wide and pleading. It was a physical effort not to scream. Only then did she drop her needle, letting the silk pool onto the floor. She was going to throw up.

“Lord Bolton, you’re early,” her father observed.

“I rode ahead of my men, Lord Stark. I hope it is not an inconvenience,” the Leech Lord said.

“No, it’s not.” Her father’s eyes, hardened to iron, settled on the lord’s bastard. “You brought your son.”

“Yes,” the lord bit out. “I thought it time to tutor him in other aspects of lordship.”

“Aye.”

“I see your son is here as well.”

Robb stepped in front of Sansa and nodded his head slightly.

“Lord Bolton. It’s a lovely day for a ride,” he said. There was a dangerous edge in his voice.

“It is. Is that the Lady Stark behind you?” Bolton asked politely.

Sansa made herself stand. Her stomach lurched and her hands trembled, but she managed a curtesy.

“She grows more stunning each time I see her, Ned.”

“That’s all her mother I’m afraid.”

“And you, Lady Mormont, will you be a mother to wolves anytime soon?”

“I think not, Roose,” she said cheerfully. “We’ve planned the wedding for after the excursion.”

“When will you meet with us? There are many rumors circulating amongst us.”

Sansa’s ears began ringing. A dull tone echoed in her head. She listened to it for a while, trying to control her breathing before she had one of her fits. They were disastrous. Her breaths came so quick and sudden that it hurt, her hands shook and the images in her mind played by so fast that it made her dizzy. Afterwards she was parched and utterly exhausted. It usually only happened when she woke up alone in the night.

The dirt covered floor faded into marble. It was King’s Landing again. Her days would be spent staring at the ground, trying to disappear.

This was not King’s Landing. This was her home. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

Sansa’s eyes moved up front the floor and met a pair of horridly pale ones.

 

Pain. So much pain. They’ve let pain in.

She’s cutting through the air but her claws don’t dig into the stone. They click and clack and scratch. She doesn’t like it, but it’s no matter. His blood is hers.

Her brothers scamper behind her, joining her in the hunt. In the woods, she follows them. She watches and tracks and waits. She might not share with them today.

The others scamper and scream. Their fear is sweet. It makes her mouth water in anticipation. His will be the meal of a life time.

She has to duck under a thick skirt, around steel feet and then, she leaps.

Pain erupts. Her teeth graze the leather on the boy’s arm.

The sky flips and her massive, grey brother looms over her. Betrayal boils in her belly. He wasn’t hunting the boy; he was hunting her.

She snarls and snaps and twists. A yelp pierces her ears and wolf blood drips from her mouth. Her brother falls. She’s up, trying to get to the danger again, but her claws do not have traction the stones. This is not the forest.

And there’s another brother. She growls as he pulls on her tail. The traitor tackles her.

She hits so hard that her head bounces off the slick, hard ground. 

Where is her silent brother? Where is her sister?

She will hunt the boy again. She has his scent. She will find him under the trees where no male or stone can stop her.

 

A deep, shuddering breath stung her chest. Red curls loomed in front of the ceiling.

“Betrayer,” she whispered.

The curls moved and she struck. Sansa clawed and snarled and twisted. She would kill the traitor and then she would kill the bastard.

Her mind was a storm of emotions and thoughts. She couldn’t distinguish her own from the others in the room. There was so much fear. It was contagious and so very, very sweet.

Not as sweet as the wolf blood had been.

Her teeth had grazed the bastard’s sleeve. She had been so close.

Pain bloomed from the crook of her neck. The sky flipped and her sister loomed over her.

______

Sansa awoke on the maester’s table. There were no words to describe how much she hated the damn things. Lewin’s hand rested on her knee as he gazed down at her. It was an innocent gesture, but it only made her think of Pycelle. She tensed her body to stop the shudder that ran through her as she remembered his wrinkled hands on her thighs and his incessant wheezing.

“Are you well, my lady?” He asked.

“As well as I can be,” she said as she slid off the table.

“My Lady, it is not wise-“

“I appreciate your concern, but it was only Arya putting me to sleep.”

She ignored his protests and left his door open for him to follow if he wished. He sighed, but did so all the same. Sansa was surprised to see her sister leaning against the wall calmly. Only her fingers moved. They traced the hilt of the dagger on her hip. She might have looked adorable if it weren’t for the murderous glint in her eyes.

“What was it you said about losing our tempers?” She drawled.

“Cute.”

The sisters stared at one another for a long time. The only movement in the windowless hall was the dancing flame of the torch. Maester Lewin was uncomfortable in his intrusion, yet hesitant to leave the girls in such unrecognizable moods.

“The wolves?” Sansa asked.

“The kennels. I won’t let them take her,” Arya said, her voice softening the slightest bit.

“Thank you.”

“Why won’t you let me take him? He wouldn’t bother you again.”

Lewin gasped, started to step forward, but stopped abruptly when the youngest girl’s dead eyes flicked to him. He stood utterly still, a man caught before a hungry she-wolf.

“They all knew ,” Sansa said flatly. “They all heard. Sometimes they saw. They all pitied me. When an old laundress tried to help he flayed her alive. He locked his father’s wife in a dungeon until she ate her own fingers. That was after fed her infant son to his hounds. Alive. It isn’t just me, Arya. I was the Lady of Winterfell. I was the Queen in the North and I could not protect my people. The least I can do is avenge them.”

Arya studied her sister before she nodded sharply. “They’re waiting for you. I’m to bring you to them.”

“Who?”

“All of them.”

Sansa sighed. “It’s the Crossroads again”

“No. This is Winterfell. We only agreed to it to show him what a fool he is in front of half of the North. ”

“Don’t underestimate him, Arya. Especially with a disgruntled Tywin Lannister prowling in the South.”

“We’ll discredit him. It’ll make them think twice about joining them.”

Sansa considered it and nodded in acceptance. There wasn’t anything she could about it. It was out of her hands.

_______

 

Jon didn’t really scare Robb. He was older, wiser and deadlier, but there was something more to Arya and Sansa. It was colder. It was like looking a wild animal in the face, except the animal could walk and talk and think and plan and swing a sword.

Robb’s guts twisted. His eleven year old sister was a killer. She would cut a man’s throat and walk away. She had killed the fucking Crown Prince and laughed about it the next morning. His other sister was lifeless. There was no joy in her, no sadness. He would bet Ice that only rage kept her from throwing herself from the broken tower.

How could he have let it get to this? How could he have abandoned them to such a terrible fate?

They were hiding something. He knew he had been a king, he had been betrayed thrice over and died for it. He’d never lost a battle. His people had loved him. What they hadn’t said was that his sister didn’t love him. He’d lost the most important battle.

Betrayer.

Sansa’s hiss followed him to the godswood.

________.

 

There weren’t as many people in the great hall as she thought there would be. Only the regulars around Winterfell with a small crowd of nobility. Still, it was stifling and loud even though the windows thrown open. She, Lewin and Arya entered through the side door and made their way across the dais. Lord Stark and his betrothed did not greet them as they took their seats. The Boltons stared up at them. Roose’s cold fury was palpable but she could see the ecstasy in Ramsey’s gaze. Gradually, the voices died down as they noticed her arrival.

“Should the accused not stand in front of the judge with the defendant?” Ramsey asked, his voice carrying to every corner of the room.

“Come on, boy,” the smalljon scowled. Sansa realized that Robb was nowhere to be found. 

The Maester stood. “The Lady should not even be here. She needs rest.”

“Aye,” an old man with a monstrous beard called. “Girl can’t help that she fainted.”

“My sister didn’t faint,” Arya said clearly. “I used a pressure point to put her out. I can show you if you like.”

Dacey’s lips twitched. Sansa stood slowly, taking the time to push her chair back in.

“It’s alright my lords. A little political maneuvering never hurt anyone,” she jested as she took the few steps off of the dais. She stood straight backed with her hands clasped near the Bolton lords. She trained her eyes on her father, refusing to meet Ramsey’s eyes again.

Ned sighed. “We here to discuss the attack of Ramsey Snow by the direwolf belonging to Lady Sansa of the House Stark. Lord Bolton arrived with his son this morning and upon greeting the Lady, her direwolf attacked Ramsey Snow. The wolf was held back by two of her littermates, at which point the Lady Arya of House Stark intervened. Lady Sansa, what do you say in the defense of your wolf?”

Sansa’s opening words were cut off by the side door opening. First, all four wolves bounded through. Then, Robb strode into the room. She’d never seen her brother like this. His blue eyes were burning with passion, his shoulders held like he was ready to snap, and his neck....

“Oh, Robb,” Sansa whispered.

The top of his tunic and jerkin were undone. A pink line curved around his neck and deeper,thicker scars marked where Grey Wind’s crowned head had been sewn onto his shoulders. Sansa blinked back tears. He was so happy, the only free one. It couldn’t have been part of the plan. Arya and their father would never let this happen. 

The wolves, except for her own, stood proudly in front of Sansa. Robb sat on the dais steps, scratching behind Lady’s ears.

Robb, Robb, sweet, wild Robb, what have you done?

“Robb, the wolves were to be locked up,” Lord Stark said.

Sansa was surprised that he managed to keep his voice so flat. There wasn’t a hint of any emotion on his face. Everyone, including herself, underestimated Lord Eddard Stark. Especially where his children were concerned.

“They are not,” her brother argued calmly. “They are here to protect us. The blood of the First Men runs through our veins. Our family has been associated with the direwolf for thousands of years. The kings of old did not lock theirs away and I will not see ours in the kennels because they’re wild and frightening.”

Roose waited for the cheers to die down before he spoke. “Pretty words, my lord, but where do you draw the line between frightening and dangerous? The Targaryens were associated with their dragons and those beasts were more dangerous than any other.”

“You’ve not seen a kraken, my lord,” Theon called with a shit eating grin. She’d never tire of seeing that stupid grin.

“I cannot speak for a kraken,” Sansa said, “but the purpose of a dragon is to destroy. They are fire made flesh and fire is power. Wolves are meant to protect their pack.”

“So your wolf was protecting you from my son?” Roose managed to put just the perfect dash of incredulity in his tone. It was no wonder that he and Littlefinger worked so well together.

“Peace, Father,” Ramsey said soothingly. “I do not fear a wolf. You know how well I master my hounds.”

Sansa stared at him coldly. “A direwolf does not have a master.”

“Anyone can be tamed,” he said softly, his smile growing with malice.

“Then perhaps I’ll tame you. I might have use for my own Reek.”

The Leech Lord’s exasperation with Ramsey turned to fear at Sansa’s words. Nymeria scooted forward at the scent. His son, however, looked overjoyed. He threw his head back and laughed. It was a jovial sound that made every bone in her body jar. Her thighs clenched in reflex. That sound meant pain. Colors grew dull and scents intensified as she began to seep under Lady’s skin. Sansa pinched herself, grounding her soul into her own body. He could not hurt her. She had four wolves and half of the northern army.

“I like you, Lady Sansa. So beautiful and you’ve got a wolf and a new Hound from what I hear. He’s not near pretty enough for you.”

“I think we are done here,” Roose cut in. He didn’t want any of his son’s violent proclivities unearthed. “If Lord Robb refuses to put them in the kennels, then keep your wolves away from my son and he’ll stay clear of the wolves.”

“Reasonable,” Ned agreed.

Lord Bolton bowed curtly, then motioned for his son to follow. Sansa watched them leave, warring with herself.

Eventually, her temper won.

“Ramsey,” she called. He spun on his heels and put on a kind smile. “Don’t steal any of the redheads. They are precious to the wildlings; they say they’re kissed by fire. I’d hate to miss the chance to take you out on a hunt. I know how much you enjoy it.”

Ramsey bowed with a flourish. “I look forward to it.”

Sansa did too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next and maybe the one after are time jumps. It’s kind of tricky to say how long it would take for someone to get from A to B. I think GRRM said he even changes it up a bit to fit the story. 
> 
> I’ll probably go back and edit the entire work for formatting this weekend. I write a lot on my phone and it’s hard to carry formatting between the app and this website (especially on mobile).


	11. Tellin' Tales

Jon Snow never liked Jaime Lannister. He respected him, but he didn’t like the man. He was too arrogant, too talkative, too damn _southern_. Jon couldn’t decide which Lannister brother annoyed him more. 

No. It was Jaime. 

This was the second time he’d tried to kill a Stark child. A dark, dark part of him, the part that whispered ‘fire and blood’ at night, wanted to kill him and be done with it. But that wouldn’t be right. Ned Stark himself said so. Jon had been given three chances at life. Jaime had potential, even if he didn’t see it himself.He wanted nothing more than to ride down to Casterly Rock and kill Tywin Lannister. The whole lot of them were nothing but creatures of greed and corruption. The mere thought of them put a bitter taste on his tongue. 

Just as some of the men at the wall had too. No, keeping Jaime with a bunch of rapists and thieves was not a good idea. Jaime was a good man at heart, but he was malleable. Like most men, his morals and values could be influenced by those he surrounded himself with. Leaving Jaime Lannister at Castle Black would result in murder or war. 

There were a lot of things Jon had done for the realm, but this very well might have been the worst. Keeping Jaime Lannister at his side might just result in a murder by the end of it all anyway. 

Benjen had settled in a clearing just off of the road. The fire cast an orange light on the small camp. His uncle was waiting against a tree, only his pale skin visible against his dark clothes and hair. They hugged after he dismounted his horse. Jon tried not to remember its name. He had gone through too many horses over his lives to get attached. 

His lives. When would he ever get peace? 

At night, before he slept, he longed for the absolute nothing that his first death had brought. Then he thought of his family. He thought of Arya, Robb, Sansa, Father, Tormund, Ygritte. Danaerys, of all the people he loved, and the pain lessened but it never really went away. 

“What are you here for?” Benjen asked softly. 

“Did he tell you?”

“Aye. Which means you need to leave.”

“It means the opposite.”

“I told you I’d keep an eye on him, even before he figured it out. He’s in no shape to be left alone at the Wall.“ 

“I couldn’t do that to you, Uncle. You have too much to worry about.”

“Not if the wildlings come through, I won’t.”

Jon hesitated. “I wouldn’t ask this of you.”

“You’re not.”

Jon thought for a while before he made a decision. “Send him to me when he wears you down and I’ll send him back when I can’t keep from killing him any longer.”

Benjen raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he led Jon to sit. Jaime Lannister had already cut his hair. Or rather Benjen had cut it for him. Jon would have paid good coin to witness that conversation. Jaime eyed him with amusement and distrust but didn’t get up from his bedroll. It was too warm for Jon’s taste, but this close to the wall it must have been very cold for someone from the South. 

“Are you here to get revenge for your grandfather, bastard?” He sneered. 

“If I was here to avenge anyone it would be Arya,” Jon snapped. The prick didn’t seem to remember that he’d tried to kill an eleven-year-old girl. “And I’m not a bastard.”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” he said, almost bored. “I always did. Why else would the Kingsguard have been there? Especially Arthur. Rhaegar wouldn’t have died if Arthur had been on the Trident.”

Guilt boiled in Jon’s gut. So not only had he killed his mother, but his father too.

“Oh, don’t look like that. It was their own fault they got killed. They shouldn’t have ran away together. Love is funny like that. It gets you killed. Or crippled, in my case.”

“You got yourself crippled when you tried to kill a little girl,” Benjen said softly.

Jaime winced and shot up, peering into the trees around them. It was an odd response to the ranger’s malice. Jon didn’t see anything at first. Then very slowly, a large shadow slunk into the camp. Shaggydog, or Lya as he was now called, growled and licked his lips. He’d never been sure if Rickon was wild because of Shaggydog or Shaggydog was wild because of Rickon, but he didn’t want to find out tonight. With a mental nudge, Ghost was howling further in the woods. Lya let out a little grunt and took off to join his brother. 

“Was that necessary?” Jaime asked, his exhaustion suddenly evident. 

Benjen lifted one shoulder. “Lya does what he wants.”

“How coincidental that he only wants to get angry when you do.”

Jon suspected that the Stark brothers weren’t skinchangers. Though he admitted it was impossible to know for sure. The gods did what they wanted and pissed on everything else. 

“Did you ride all the way up here just to brood, boy?” Jaime drawled. 

_Boy. What boy ever died three times? What boy ever lost his baby brothers twice?_

“Keeping an eye on you,” he grit out. 

Jaime snorted and held up his right arm. The stump was wrapped in bandages and leather to protect it from the cold and dirt. As Jon understood it, the knight had suffered a terrible infection the first time he lost his hand. That was easy enough to avoid out of wartime, but nothing could be done for the phantom pains. Or the cold. 

“Your father is going to start a war soon. He’s probably already done it, I don’t know. I can’t have you running off and telling tales.”

“Why don’t you kill me and be done with it?”

Jaime’s tone betrayed the thoughts that all men and women were told to hide. The weakness that everyone claimed to not have. That deep down, everyone just wanted an end to their suffering and death was the only sure way to have it. 

“Sansa wanted to,” Jon admitted. “She reckons that Tywin would try to burn the wall down to get his heir back. Father said it wasn’t right. And.... as loathe as I am to admit it, I have faith in you. I saw your face when we let the wight out of its cage. You’ll see how foolish all of your southern games are when you see the true enemy.”

“What in the seven bloody hells are you talking about?!”

“Surely you heard about our visions?” Jon asked with a mirthless chuckle. If only it had been nothing more than green dreams. 

“I thought it was just the girls that claimed that idiocy.”

He wasn’t wearing many layers. He knew what the true cold was. He’d thought it was bad up past the Frostfangs, when he’d joined the Freefolk, then he’d fought the White Walkers at Hardhome. Their cold burned. It burned so bad you wanted to throw yourself into a fire, even if it meant a different kind of burning. Jon shucked his thin cloak aside lifted his two shirts to reveal the nineteen stab wounds on his chest. Some of them were distorted by the death blow from the Night King.

“Believe what you will. You’ll see it soon enough,” Jon said, shoving his clothes down. 

“What do you mean?” The other man asked warily. 

“You’re not joining the Watch, not after your little shit of a son went missing. You’re going beyond the wall with me.” 

“Like hell I am! If you think I’m going to follow you around like a bloody squire in the ice and snow-“

“What are you going to do?” 

“My father-“  
“Is hundreds of miles away. And he can’t help you beyond the wall. You chose to join the Night’s Watch and I know it’s not because you wanted your daddy to save you.”

“Enough!” Benjen commanded when Jaime made to retort. “Get some sleep while it’s still warm, Lannister.” 

He chuckled at Jaime’s incredulous expression. “It’s only going to get colder where we’re going.” 

Jaime muttered darkly as he wrapped himself back into his bedroll and turned his back to the other men. Jon followed suit. He looked at the stars through the trees, remembering how they only seemed to grow further away the higher you flew. 

Both men dreamed of fire. 

* * *

 

Mance Rayder came to Winterfell for one thing. Well, really maybe two, but the Stark girls were very young and even more deadly. Only a fool would try to steal either of them away. The King Beyond the Wall came south for information and he found more than he ever thought possible. The world really should have stopped surprising him years ago. His wife was right; he’d never be more than a fool. 

The seven kingdoms were in worse shape than he thought they could ever be. The king was a selfish, drunken fool and the queen was dead. Mance himself watched her die for fucking her brother (Or, as the spearwife Lyra put it, fucking herself since the twins were mirror images of one another.). Yes, the realm was in chaos, but it was not unprepared for the Long Night. The Old Gods were merciful. 

They’d brought the Kings of Winter back into the world. Each of the Starks, even the crow, had a direwolf. The pretty one was already skinchanging into hers and a big black warhorse. The youngest claimed all but the oldest had green dreams about the Long Night, but the pretty one didn’t have any scars and the oldest had marched in with new ones only minutes before. The Stark children knew something and they were lying about it. Their stories didn’t add up, but as Lyra had said, maybe he just didn’t have enough pieces to put the puzzle together. So, he’d sent Lyra and her two cousins back home. He stayed with the other two spearwives to watch and learn. Lord Stark was going to treat with him anyway. He’d just hitch a ride north and sneak back to camp in the night. 

That was how Mance Rayder found himself watching a strange trial from a servant’s hall. All of the threats and accusations were spoken in half. The Lady Sansa and the Leech’s bastard spoke in a language unique to themselves. It was hostile, that much was evident, and then she’d said something very peculiar. Don’t steal any of the redheads. They are precious to the wildlings; they say they’re kissed by fire.

It could be that someone told her because she was kissed by fire. That seemed unlikely. The free folk were despised by the south. They wouldn’t spread any tales of beauty or warmth. It was easier to kill a man if he didn’t have a soul. The gods might have told her in a dream, but that was just as unlikely. The gods had no reason to show her something so inconsequential. 

The youngest daughter reached up to clap her brother upside the head and jerk onto his ear. With a jolt, Mance realized she was dragging him to his spot. He scurried back, not even having time to close the door, and hid behind a stack of crates. It was uncomfortable and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. The whole family shuffled in, the father closing the door behind his bride. There were too many strong personalities hidden away in such a narrow room. Nerves and the crowding had a bead of sweat itching a path down his neck. He didn’t dare move to wipe it off. 

“Robb Stark, what have you done?!” The youngest snarled.

“Why was it me, _Arya Stark_? How do you know it wasn’t the gods who chose-“

“Because we know you and this is exactly the foolish, destructive, immature-“ Sansa began.

“What happened?” Ned asked calmly. 

Robb looked at him, the floor, the wall, and finally settled on his feet once more.

“You called me _betrayer_. I had to know,” he told them. 

The pretty one took a deep breath. “I was upset. You-“

“Don’t lie to me,” he hissed, his blue eyes flashing. “You don’t look at me anymore. It used to be just me and you and Mother, and you won’t look at me! You look at _the Hound_ more than you look at your own brother. I had to know.”

“We did it to protect you, stupid,” Arya growled. 

“You did a shit job, then.”

“Robb, don’t speak to your sisters in such a way.”

“They’re lying to us, Father.”

“We’ve never-“

“Omitting truths is just as bad.”

“And what truth is that?” Sansa snapped. She was just as tall as her brother and only still a girl. She’d be a great beauty, that one, and a rival for Varamyr Sixskins to boot. She’d make any man a fine prize... Mance discarded the thought as soon as it appeared.Only an idiot would try to steal a warg. “That your corpse was defiled? That mother suffered a worse fate than death? That you had to watch while they ripped your unborn babe from your wife’s womb? Pray tell why you needed to know these truths?”

Ned looked like he was going to be as sick as Mance felt. “Is all this true?”

“I had it easy, Father. The rest of them had it so much worse. And it’s all because I wouldn’t trade the Kingslayer.”

“Oh, shut up about it,” Arya groaned. “You couldn’t even trade for me! You did a lot of stupid things but that wasn’t one of them.”

“You didn’t live it, did you?” Sansa asked. “What did he show you?”  
_He?_ Who was he? 

“Me in the South. Fighting with Grey Wind. Using him to scout the enemy’s camp, to sniff out hidden paths. And then me locking him up. Every time I did something stupid, I’d chained him in the yard or put him in the kennels. All because he scared someone or made them uneasy. Then the Red Wedding. I saw you Arya. When I died, I went to Grey Wind and I saw you there.”

“Then they killed you twice,” Arya whispered.

All of them were quiet for a long while. A muscle began twitching in Mance’s calf. He wished they’d get on with it.

“How could they call me the Young Wolf if I betrayed my wolf?”

“You weren’t the first to make that mistake,” the she-bear said consolingly. “The Targaryens locked their dragons in the Dragonpit and look at what happened. They got smaller and weaker with each generation.”

“I betrayed mine too, Robb. We can’t do anything but learn from our mistakes.”

“Yes,” Ned Stark said. “I agree that you mustn’t put anyone above your direwolves. But you can’t keep things from us girls. I understand wanting to protect your family, but telling us hard truths may keep us from harm.”

The girls nodded solemnly. 

“Now, let’s get back. We’ve got a lot to do.” 

“Not just yet, Father,” Arya said. Mance felt his stomach drop. “There’s someone dropping eaves.” 

____

Arya and Mormont questioned him for hours. He still wasn’t sure they believed him. He didn’t start talking until the girl pulled out a flaying knife and said a king’s face would be mighty useful. Mance couldn’t shut himself up after that. He didn’t have anything to hide. He wouldn’t die slow for his pride. He was a brave man, but this girl had eyes crueler than the Thenns. 

“So then,” he said after he was done. His voice was hoarse from how much he’d used it. “What is that you know?”

Arya’s eyes burned into his. He shivered, his back worming against the column he was tied to. 

“Would you believe me if I said I’d already lived this life?” 

He  didn’t have to answer. Those eyes of hers told him everything he needed to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was hard for me to write this chapter, so I tried using a new POV. Thanks for all the kind words!


	12. Northmen

ONE MONTH LATER 

 

 

Each of the Stark bannermen raised a third of their men to march on the Wall. The parties furthest away from Winterfell waited close to the Kingsroad while their lords traveled to Winterfell. The Karstarks had only arrived three days hence. They were given just enough time to relax before all of the lords of the North were called to the Great Hall after dinner. Most had eaten together. It was simpler, but by the gods, was it crowded and loud and _hot_. Sansa had messily braided her hair in an attempt to get it off of her neck. She didn’t know how Arya dealt with it in those tight leather breeches. 

The jovial noises in the hall quietened as Ned Stark stood. He waited until he held every person’s attention to begin his speech. She wondered how amiable they would remain when their guest was revealed. 

“Winter is coming.” 

They all stayed silent, knowing the famous words were issued as a grim warning instead of a celebratory cheer.

“This has been the longest summer Westeros has seen in most of our lives. This winter is predicted to be the longest we’ve had in generations. King Robert begged me to go south and serve as Hand, but I refused. I am sworn to protect and lead the North and I will not abandon my people during one the longest winters on record.” 

The hall erupted into cheers at that. Ned allowed himself a small smile before he went on. 

“Preparations are needed. I’ve consulted with you all individually on how to maximize our harvest yields and best store them. We have ordered materials for more glasshouses to be made across the North and are preparing to trade in the South.” 

Robb frowned on her father’s left side. Those trade agreements were really marriage proposals to southern ladies for his hand. Though with Margaery surely hunting for a throne, their most useful ally was gone. Sansa had volunteered herself to one of the Tyrell sons after much deliberation, but her family adamantly refused. She was needed in Winterfell. Sansa had cried in relief when they’d gone.

“As always, Winter Town is open to any one who would come. I would ask for you to remind the smallfolk when the time comes. However, I think you all know I did not summon the whole of the North to talk of winter preparations.”

Ned stared at his men with hard eyes.

“Winter is coming and the dead with it.” 

The room was silent for one heartbeat and then it exploded into sound. She peered at each of their faces. Amusement, shock, scorn, and grim acceptance showed on all of their faces. It appeared more of the northern lords, particularly the mountain clans, had their own suspicions. Each of the Starks memorized each reaction.

“You can’t be serious, Ned!” The Greatjon shouted once he could be heard.

“Aye, we are! Wildling raids have increased drastically. The Rangers of the Night’s Watch have seen strange things, worrying things. Entire wildling villages have disappeared at once. Dozens of men, women and children gone in a night. I’ve executed five Night’s Watch deserters this year alone. The last said he watched a White Walker kill his brothers on a ranging.” 

“Ned, this is…” Lord Karstark began but his protest died out. The Karstarks and the Umbers bore the brunt of Wildling attacks. They were more aware of their movement than anyone south of the Wall. 

“Benjen himself said it was difficult to know what’s happening when his rangers are deserting like they never have before.”

Robb took advantage of their men’s hesitance. “We are Northmen! We follow the Old Gods. Some of you still follow their Old Ways. There are too many signs to ignore and it is our duty to see them. To act on them!”

Sansa stood, her chair scraping against the wooden dais. Arya did too, but she was much quieter. Her part was more for theatrics anyway. A different sort of silence, almost like anticipation, fell over the men as the sisters stood.

“There have been many rumors concerning my sister and I,” Sansa said. “The strange, hard truth is the Old Gods gave us visions.” 

The men were too curious to interrupt with whatever misgivings they had. 

“First it was just Jon, Arya, and myself. We think it was just the three of us because we were the last Starks to die.”

“The bastard is a-”

“I’m disappointed Lady Dustin,” Sansa said coldly. “This is not the South. We’re not foolish enough to place precedence of words on paper than the blood of the land. My _brother_ is as Stark as they come. You need only look at him to know it.” 

“Where is the boy?” Someone called. 

“Went on to Castle Black with Benjen,” the Smalljon answered.

“He takin’ the Black?” Another asked curiously.

“No. He’s there to talk with the Lord Commander on my behalf and make use of whatever they might have in their library,” Ned said in a tone that dared any more interruptions.

“You lot are worse gossips than a bunch of crones darning socks,” Dacey accused. 

The men laughed and toasted to that particular hard truth. 

“The three of us were the last to die,” Sansa continued, “so the Old Gods showed us all that is to come. The Others are coming, my lords. We fought them ourselves. And we lost.”  
Arya pulled on the collar of her tunic to further emphasize the gash on her neck. “A wight got me with an axe right outside the western gate.”

Robb showed the ring around his neck. “I was only granted the visions after I begged to help my brother and sisters shoulder their burden. The enemy took off my head. Father’s too.”

It was a half-truth they decided to tell during a long night in the solar.

“Jon lost a hand and then his life to the Night King,” Sansa said. “I faced him in the Godswood after. I didn’t make it a full step before his sword was in my belly.” 

The men studied their leige lords with confusion and shock. 

“How…how did they get so far south? They couldn’t have unless…” Alys Karstark asked. She was of age with Robb and traveled to Winterfell with her father to be paraded about. She was pretty in a northern way and fierce. Sansa considered asking her to stay for a time. 

“The Wall fell,” Sansa answered. The men steadily began their dismissal of her words. 

“We don’t know how,” Arya shouted. “All we saw was a great chunk missing and the dead pouring through.” 

“You expect us to believe that the Wall fell?” A Flint asked increduously.  
“The Watch is the weakest it has ever been,” Ned answered. “There are only three castles manned with a thousand men altogether. Those men, brave as they are, only made their vows because they had no choice. On top of that, they’ve been preoccupied with the Wildlings for decades.”

“Fucking gits,” one of the massive Umbers cursed.

“The Wildlings are just men,” Sansa said. “They were hunted and had nowhere to run.” 

“Good!” Rickard Karstak said. “They deserve no less!”

“Mance Rayder has a hundred thousand men, Lord Karstark. That only includes his host. It does not include the women, children, and elderly. And each corpse of theirs became a wight for the Night King.” 

Curses and murmurs echoed throughout the hall. 

“So many? How do you know?”

“I saw them,” she said. “If you don’t believe me ask him yourself.”

“Jory!” Ned called. 

The side door opened and Jory escorted a cleaner, fatter Mance Rayder. They’d hid him in plain sight, treating and planning together in the latest hours of the day. The sharp planes of his face were haughty and his stance proud. He stood beside Robb in his new doublet as though nothing were amiss. Rickard Karstark only had his sword drawn halfway before Rick and Grey Wind tackled him to the floor. The tall old man blanched at their long teeth at his neck. 

“He is under guest rights. If you spill one drop of his blood I will send all of yours to the Old Gods.” Robb threat was dangerously calm. His sisters didn’t bother hiding their grins. 

“Our ancestors did not build a seven hundred foot wall of ice from coast to coast to keep out Wildlings. They are men, just as you and I are. You will listen to what this man has to say,” Ned ordered. 

Mance nodded sharply and looked out over the men that wanted his blood. 

“You have no love for me or my people-“

“TURNCLOAK!” 

“Aye! I turned my back on the Night’s Watch! I pledged my loyalty to a fierce and true group of people that I have given the last five years of my life for. I have spent five long and difficult years uniting over a hundred different clans. Including the giants! I had to fight the damn Thenn three fucking times!”

A few men shuffled uneasily. Even the ferocity of the Thenns was known so far from their valley. 

“I didn’t do it for glory. I didn’t do it for power. I have no power. The only thing I had was a plan to save them.” His voice dropped and his eyes gleamed with unshed tears as he spoke. “Whole villages gone in an hour! Men, women, children, babes, beasts _gone_. Any time the dead are left behind is to taunt us. They kill the camps and rip apart the bodies and make pretty little pictures with the pieces. You’re pissing yourself in fear and shaking with anger, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, all while you’ve got a little girl’s head snarling at you and a fresh hand clawing it’s way across the snow to get to you.

“I can’t save them! I can’t save you! We can only save ourselves together. Every dead Free Folk is another for their army! I don’t want a war. I don’t want to kill the men I used to call brother. I don’t want to kill none of you and I don’t want to see no more of mine killed. But I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever I need to get them on the right side of the Wall.”

Ned waited to see if anyone had anything to say but all looked put out or deep in thought. 

“We found him weeks ago, long after I sent the summons. He snuck in to the King’s feast to test the waters. We’ve been discussing terms ever since.”

“NED!”

Lord Stark raised his hand for silence. 

“I’ve only been discussing it. I wouldn’t agree to anything without consulting my lords. Surely you have more faith in me than that.”

The GreatJon grumbled and glared at Mance, but conceded his point. 

“Still, we need proof. Not only for ourselves, but to spread the word to the other kingdoms. Our men will go out beyond the wall with the Free Folk and the Night’s Watch to see for ourselves. We can all agree to that.”

“Aye!”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“We do.”

Robb nodded. “In good faith, two hundred of the Free Folk and some of their warriors will be settled around Winterfell while we ride north.”

“My Lord-“

“Whatever else you call them, they are of the North. I’d rather share my home with them than any more silly southerners,” Sansa said drily. 

A few people laughed but the Karstarks, apart from Alys, looked as though something had died and rotted under their noses. 

“The Free Folk will not kneel, but neither will they raid, rape, or steal while they are below the Wall. The penalty will be death or loss of limb,” Mance promised. 

“Same for us,” Ned ordered. “You will follow the law no matter who is in our lands. I will not have my men acting with any less honor than they would expect of myself.”

The Starks watched as each of their lords assented. 

“Good. We’ll hammer out the details when the time comes. We leave on the morrow. Rest indoors while you can.”

Sansa shared a look with her family. It could have gone much worse. She was infinitely thankful that she would not have to sit in on the final negotiations. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, but it was really difficult for me to write this chapter. I've already written some scenes that come later on the story, so I promise the updates will be sooner and better after I get through these transitiony bits.


	13. Winter is Coming

 

Sansa, Alys, and Jeyne Poole stood on the battlements long after their countrymen thundered out of the north gate. Lord Karstark had been all too cheerful to leave his daughter with the heir in the north. It was nice to have someone only a few years younger than herself. Jeyne was a sweet girl, but she only three and ten. Sansa wasn’t sure how many name days she’d seen before she died. Those days were so dark the sun hid for weeks. There was no point in marking the time if you had nothing to look forward to and the blizzards were too rough for ravens. She figured she was around twenty now. Alys was six and ten. 

With a sigh, the girls turned to make their way to the maester’s turret. Sansa was substituting her household lessons for healing and surgical ones. Lewin had also asked the other maesters of the north to send along any research they could find on White Walkers or any of the forgotten Old Ways. It was an uneventful but necessary way to spend the weeks and months as they all waited for the return of the men. She comforted herself by remembering that at least she wasn’t freezing on the Wall like Jon.

She wrote to Jon at least once a week. He didn’t always reply, but she liked to remind him that he was loved. Her eldest brother was quick to brood. Arya, Robb, and Dacey wrote their own letters, though not as often. 

Sansa spent a good deal of her time writing letters. It was her favorite way to avoid the training yard. A warrior’s life was not her fate. It was a fact that she was all to eager to accept. Arya wanted her to train more, but Sansa was content with her archery and self defense lessons. Dacey and Robb were grateful that she volunteered to do the writing. Both of them had terrible penmanship and found it dull. 

Surprisingly, King Robert was her favorite correspondent. His first note demanded that ‘Ned thaw his fat arse from whatever he’d got it stuck to and relieve Stannis from his duty as Hand of the King before he got himself killed for raising brothel taxes again’. It wasn’t long before a betrothal to Margaery Tyrell was announced. Robb, and probably Rickard Karstark, was overjoyed to marry a northern girl instead. Sansa sighed and reminded the king that her father would not be able to attend because of the wildling settlement. Robert replied in his own hand, in all capital letters. 

_THERE WILL BE A FUCKING STARK AT MY MUMMERS FARCE OF A WEDDING OR SO HELP ME I SWEAR ON THE CRONE’S SAGGY TITS I WILL MARCH THESE FOOLISH PRICKS TO WINTERFELL AND NEVER LEAVE. I WILL NOT ENDUDE THIS HORSESHIT ALONE NED._

Sansa had also made another friend. She’d sent out summaries of the meeting to the Reeds and the Skagos lords. It was the first time they had any contact with the islanders in decades. Perhaps a century. An unsigned scroll from House Magnar read: 

_It’s high time you remember the true purpose of the North._

_All of Skagos will proudly fight with their northern brothers during the Long Night._

To which Sansa replied:

_Brother,_

_Unfortunately, we do not remember all. Most of the Old Ways have been forgotten. We will ask the Free Folk for their help, but any knowledge unique to your people would be of great assistance. Each of the Stark children have direwolves. We are wargs, but inexperienced and lack any mentor. We have visions of the Long Night and the fall of man. The Old Gods are trying to help us, but I fear that we will prove inadequate._

_Know that you are always welcome to Winterfell._

_-Sansa Stark_

Weeks later, another raven from Skagos arrived. Their new ties to Westeros seemed to prove a greater symbol of the changing world to the people of Winterfell than any talk of the undead. This scroll was just as short as the first. 

_She-wolf,_

_The Old Ways may be unwelcome to such a noble house._

Sansa could practically feel the sneer coming off the parchment. She rolled her eyes and continued reading. 

_A quarter cup of blood other than your own_

_A quarter cup of sap from a heart tree_

_Three weirwood leaves_

_Mix to a paste_

_Salt to taste_

_-Brother_

There were no other instructions. The recipe sent a shiver up her spine, though she appreciated the dark humor. Blood magic never had good consequences. Mouth suddenly dry, she scribbled out a response before she went to occupy her mind with other things. 

_Brother, you and yours are_ _always_ _welcome in Winterfell. Winter is coming._

In between her letters, lessons, and research, her nameday passed. Soon after she awoke with her belly twisting and blood between her thighs. The young maid ran off to the septa before Sansa could stop her. It was quite possibly the worst hour of Sansa’s new life. Septa Mordane preached about a lady’s duty and what to expect in a marriage bed. It all encouraged women to be subservient to their husbands, to lie back with their legs spread. It wasn’t quite sinful to find pleasure in the marriage bed, but it wasn’t proper for a woman to seek it out. Fleetingly, Sansa wondered how these talks went over in Dorne.

She lost her temper when the old woman tried to lead her in prayer to the Maiden. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Sansa! This is not how a young lady acts! You are a woman now.”

Sansa tried to remain calm and cold, but the folly was wasting too much of her time. “This is Winterfell, Septa. The Seven did not give me visions of the war to come. I cannot in pray to them in good conscious.”

“Your Lady Mother-“

“Is dead, Septa. She was from the South, where the heart trees were destroyed long ago. She would not want me to pretend to pray to her gods and quite frankly, I don’t have the time.”

“Lord Stark will hear of this, my girl.”

“And he will listen and do nothing. Father doesn’t have nearly enough time for you to try to convert his children to gods that he doesn’t worship.”

“Lady Catelyn would have wanted her daughter to take her guidance from the Maiden and the Mother. One day you too will marry a man that follows the Seven.”

Sansa stood abruptly. “Unless the Manderlys reveal a hidden son there is no chance of that happening. After the King’s wedding I will not set foot past the Neck again. Please, Septa, I must get dressed.”

The woman’s lips thinned. Her back was so stiff as she left the room that Sansa thought it might snap. She dressed quickly and hurried off to meet her brother in Winter Town. 

It was three months after Lord Stark led to his men North until a guard reported a strange shaping looming in the distance. Sansa peered through the old Myrish lens. It was cracked in her first life and now disconcerting to have a clear view. Far off, a mountain moved against the grey sky. 

“That’s a giant,” she said. “The first settlers are here.”

———————

Ned Stark thought he knew the cold. He was the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North. The Lands Beyond the Wall were as cold as the last winter he’d seen and it was now still summer. How so many people survived so far into the icy wasteland was beyond his comprehension. The wolves did most of their hunting for them. The two wildlings in his party helped find greens and berries when they weren’t casting mistrustful looks at Arya. A recruit named Mark was the only other ‘kneeler’ shivering along with them. 

If he knew Arya, she was regretting her choice to accompany him. It was cold and dull, searching for living death out in the dark. He didn’t know his youngest child though, not anymore. He didn’t know any of his children. 

Jon was a king, a warrior. There was no doubt in Ned’s mind that he could have defeated Ser Arthur Dayne after he gained more muscle. Jon was fast, cunning, and experienced. His tutors were so varied that it made his style uniquely fatal. He never thought he’d learn to swing a sword from his son. 

Arya’s fighting style was unique as well. Hers was even more swift, but nowhere near as wild. It was graceful. She bested her sparring partners before they could work out where she had moved. He was proud, but the cost of her expertise made Ned’s heart drop each time he thought of it. Her simple claim of ‘training across Westeros and across the Narrow Sea’ was really fighting tooth and nail against ruthless men and then training to be a Faceless Man. His twelve year old daughter an assassin. She’d killed Joffrey and laughed about it. And Sansa had shrugged it off!

Sansa. Sweet, beautiful Sansa. She’d been so quiet after her mother died. She was more stoic than her siblings. She enjoyed the finer things in life more than anyone in their home and she was lonely for it. The halls of Winterfell were no longer filled with her sweet songs. She was a cold, unhappy woman. She didn’t show it, but Ned could tell. It was deeper than discontent. It was an unending tunnel of ice waiting to be unleashed. He worried for her the most, so much so that he’d set Robb on her. 

Ned pulled himself out of his thoughts. The Free Folk, Mags and Lok, frowned across the campfire at Arya. They feared her, the young warg with dead eyes. They’d seen her spar at Castle Black. She would be unstoppable when her body grew. Ned shook his head. There was no use pouting over something he couldn’t change.

“Must be nice to have a beard,” Arya muttered. 

Mags snorted. She was a wiry old spearwife without a wrinkle one. The cold preserves, Jon had said once. He ran a hand over his own. It hadn’t been this wild and bushy since Robert’s Rebellion. 

“Do the giants help much?” Ned asked.

“With the killing?” Lok asked. 

The man was the same age as Ned but that was where the similarities ended. Lok was a cheerful fellow and handy with a spear. He and Grenn were usually the only source of sound in their camps. Tonight, they’d chosen a spot where the trees were thinnest for better visibility. Torches circled their bodies. Protection against the dead, not the low temperature. The only sounds were the horses and the crackling of the fire. Ned missed the simplicity of nature. He hadn’t been born raised to run the North. He thought to spend his life in the woods until he settled down with a fierce northern girl. At least he was finally getting the girl. He loved Cat. He always would, but Dacey was more blunt and passionate. She challenged him to come out of his shell without being as reckless as Lya and Brandon. 

“No, with work,” He clarified. 

Lok grunted. “Sometimes. Pendin on what you’s needin it for. How much work it is. If you’ll work them senseless.”

“No. Never. Winter is a few years away. We won’t have enough snow to substitute as a water supply for such a large population for a couple of years yet. It could take months to build wells or years create some sort of transfer system. The giants could have it done in no time.”

“Aye, they’d help with that without you needin to ask.”

“Good. And later on, when the time comes, I’d like another wall encasing the town. That’s further on after winter truly strikes.”

“No use in frettin’ till ya need ta,” Mags advised. “Yous un good lord, I’d wager. Nothin ta compare up here’n ways.”

“Don’t the Thenns have a lord?” Mark asked. 

“Mmhm. They’s gooduns too in they own way.”

“Harsher way,” Ned intoned

“Harsher land,” Lok noted. 

Arya grumbled something under her breath in what sounded like Bravosi. Then, she jerked to attention and peered over Mark’s shoulder. The adults followed suit, even the horses huffing into the dusk. 

“It’s just Ghost,” she finally said, and put her fingers to her lips in a whistle. 

“Her brother’s direwolf,” Ned explained as he sat back down. The others didn’t seem to find the news of yet another direwolf as comforting. 

Sure enough, another whistle echoed Arya’s and three strange shapes hulked through the trees. The direwolves reached camp before their party. Jon, Rickard Karstark, a recruit named Grenn, and three wildlings followed soon after. They tied their horses up across from Ned’s and joined their fire. 

“You waited to camp awful long,” Mags noted.

“Ghost sensed Sum- Rick. Thought we might as well camp together.” Jon said with a shrug. 

They were quiet as chewed on their tough jerky, compliments of Hobb. Ned couldn’t help but smile as Arya settled under her brother’s arm. 

“You’re handling this well, Rickard,” Ned teased.

The tall man scowled at his liege lord. “Piss off.”

A wildling with a beard to rival Lord Karstark chuckled. 

“Right ass the first few days, he was,” another one said. 

“You find anything?” Arya asked. 

“Not yet. Tracks leadin this way,” the bearded wildling said.

“Us too. Mightn’ve met up,” Mags guessed. 

Ned shuddered. He’d rather not be facing an allied group of the dead.

“That’ll mean a walker’s close,” Jon said softly. He peered up into the sky as if looking for a sign of an upcoming battle. 

“What?” Lord Karstark snapped. 

“The Walkers control them. They don’t have any thought or instincts of their own. If they’ve met up, it’s because a walker told them to,” he explained. He studied each person around the fire, evaluating their size and strength. This was the King of Winter towering over him. His son, born of fire and ice. The hairs of his neck stood on end. “The light’s nearly gone. We don’t have enough time to flee. Arya take the south flank with Ghost and Nymeria in case we’re ambushed. Ready the horses. Lord Karstark, you take the east. Lord Stark, the west. I will take the North, but Father is the only one with Valyrian steel. If there’s an Other and we’re forced to fight it, and _only_ if we’re forced to, our priority will be to keep the wights off of Father. The rest of you divide your numbers amongst yourselves. We run as soon as we can, but only together. You won’t last out there on your own at night.”

Immediately, the men and women began to follow his orders. Ned’s leather gloves creaked as he gripped the hilt of Ice.

“Remember, always keep the fire going!” Jon called over their movements. “And strike to disable! Death blows only work with Valyrian steel and dragon glass. Unless you Free Folk have learned to pull it out of your asses, we’ve only got the one.”

“No Lord Snow, but we’ll be sure to stick it up your ass when we do!”  
Rick stood at attention beside Ned. They stared out into the bare trees with heavy hearts and sharp minds. It was worrying to have the ancestral sword of the Starks in his hand and a direwolf at his feet. _Is this fate come again? Is this how Starks became the Kings of Winter? Is this why even the Free Folk fear us?_

Winter is coming. It was said to be the only words of great house with a warning instead of a threat. It was a warning, yes, but it was a threat and a boast as well. _Winter is coming. The great men that beat back the dead are coming. Run. Hide. The wolves will hunt you._

Ned, Mags, and Lok traded out their posts to pace and huddle by the fire. It was the only way to keep themselves warm. It was the difference between life and death. Then, the air got a bite to it. Even the torches seemed to struggle. Ice seeped through his layers until his bones turned to brittle iron. Each inhale set his lungs aflame. 

The wolves howled. Ned thought he might vomit. That at least would warm up his throat. He got this way before every battle. Robert and Brandon were ecstatic, restless, eager to work off their passions. It was never that way for Ned. 

He knew wights were real. His daughters and son had told him a thousand times, but to see it. To witness a corpse, already half a skeleton, drag an axe across the frozen snow was another thing altogether. His heart hammered, demanding free of his chest. Ned readied Ice and a loud curse sounded from Rickard. The bearded wildling laughed at his fear.

The dire wolf attacked and the corpse fell. It dragged itself forward, its fingers chipping away at the ice for The most frightening, however, was that the direwolf knew. Instead of going for throat, it went for the knee. Ned gaped in stunned disbelief. More questions raced across his mind. He shut them out as more wights lumbered through the woods. 

An age seemed to pass before they were upon him. There were far more than the tracks showed. He swung Ice, but it was parried by an axe. Testing the waters, he kicked out at its knee. The wight stumbled, opening up its guard. He took off its head with one blow.Ned wasn’t as young as he once was. Even with regular training, he moved slower. It was lucky that the rotting things didn’t seem to have the ability to think beyond simple parries and thrusts. One, two, three more crumbled to settle above the white ground. 

“WALKER!”

Ned rushed to the call. He pushed past the wights and leapt over the undead. A bony arm switched directions to claw after him. 

It came from the North. It was as tall as the Hound and even far more graceful. The thing glided over the forest floor as though it were dancing. It was an eerily beautiful scene. The armor glinted in the fire, revealing hints of the death-white skin underneath. The sword, by the gods the sword! It was as thin as parchment and as clear as glass. 

Scorching blue eyes met his just before it attacked. 

It lazily swung the blade at his neck, expecting no resistance. Ice met it and the creature’s eyes widened in shock. It withdrew and struck again, harder this time. Ned knocked it aside. He went on the offensive, driving the thing back into the trees step by step. With a snarl, he lifted his arms above his head and used all of his power to drive it down. The Other stopped the death blow at the last moment, the swords crossing just before the thin blade cracked and chipped and fell like the wights had. 

Fear stormed in its swirling eyes. 

“Stark,” it hissed in a voice like ice. 

The Lord of Winterfell struck true. The Other fell to join its twisted get. 

Ned didn’t notice that the battle had stopped for a long moment. He watched as the glittering shards that had been a creature of death dissolved into nothing. Something soft rubbed at his hand. Ned scratched the direwolf between the ears. He turned back to the camp, one hand on the head of his wolf and the other still holding his forefather’s greatsword. Arya and Jon were flushed, but well. Rickard was warring between shock, fear and rage. Only the recruit Mark had died. All of them, even Jon, lowered themselves to a knee. 

He choked back tears. Even a king should not kneel before his father.“Rise.”

“Father?” Arya asked. 

Ned took a deep breath. Almost two decades had passed and that awful day in the desert haunted his living nightmares. 

“It was no Arthur Dayne,” he said honestly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that Sansa didn't start saying 'aye' until she spent time with Tormund.
> 
> Also, Ned was able to kill the Walker because it was taken by surprise. It expected easy prey, not three castle-trained Northmen with a greatsword.


	14. The Witch of the North

 

I originally had Jon Snow leading them back, but since he decided to show up with Ned I thought the Mormonts and the Manderlys were the next logical escorts. Also I keep getting confused writing with the two Jon umbers and Jon Snow so I apologize in advance if it gets difficult. Just know that was for me as well.

* * *

 

Lady and Grey Wind sat proudly on either side of Dacey. They were almost inseparable from the She-Bear, solidifying her status as the Lady of Winterfell. Or Queen in the North in all but name as the Starks had been for years. The giants, as tall and thick as the oldest trees, peered down at the welcoming party with unreadable expressions. One appeared to be a woman, but Sansa couldn’t be sure either way.

“Jon,” Robb hissed.

The Smalljon came forward to dip his head between Robb and Sansa. The Unber heir had wanted to go with the men but everyone from Robb to the Greatjon and even Sansa had protested. She knew the stories of his death. He’d taken a dozen crossbow bolts, threw a table in front of Robb and fought to the last breath with whatever he could find. Men of his caliber were rare in their wretched world. He was to be protected.

“Best ready yourself. I think we’ve finally found a woman of your station,” Robb whispered, nodding to the four giants.

“Robb!” Sansa cried.

Jon chuckled, “Worry not, my lady. I can defend my own virtue.”

“I certainly hope so,” she said. “We’ll be far too busy to fend off the spearwives that will try to steal you away from us.”

Jon guffawed, his hearty laugh surely carrying all the way to the approaching refugees.

“You scare me, sister. I fear what I am to endure if the Smalljon will bear such an onslaught.” Robb mock shuddered.

“You have nothing to worry about. No one will want a pretty little lord when they have someone as fierce and handsome as the Smalljon.”

Both men stared at her with their jaws nearly in the dirt. Sansa scoffed. “Did either of you listen to anything we’ve said?!”

“Aye, it’s just....you said he was handsome,” Robb whispered in horror.

“He is,” Dacey added calmly.

A woman’s voice called down the road in greeting. The wildlings were close enough to make out faces. She glanced at the sun in the sky, just as Maester Lewin would do for his records. It would be a day that her descendants would have to memorize in their own lessons.

“I’ve been thinking about marrying one of the Free Folk to set an example,” Sansa admitted.

“Sansa!” Robb cried.

“My lady, we would never ask such a thing of you,” Jon said seriously.

The Umbers had a natural tan despite their regency over the Last Hearth. The Smalljon had a honest face. Sansa would judge anyone else as foolish who wore their emotions so easily. However, there was no point in being dishonest if you could simply squash anyone that took insult. His brown hair and beard were a bit shaggy and his nose a bit large, but he was a big enough man that they didn’t overwhelm him. His honey colored eyes were his best feature. They betrayed his monstrous stature for the jovial wildness within. He never smelled either. As much as she loved the Free Folk, they did not concern themselves with hygiene as the nobility did. He would make any woman a good husband.

“Thank you Jon, but Father said I could marry whomever I wish,” Sansa pointed out.

“Aye, with approval from me, Jon, and Father,” Robb countered.

“They’re here,” Dacey announces. She was watching the three of them with an odd smirk. Sansa suddenly became uneasy, then she became guilty for being uneasy. There was nothing to fear from Dacey. Sansa was home and surrounded by people that loved her. This was not King’s Landing.

A handful of riders galloped ahead to the gates of Winterfell. Maege Mormont led them all. Sandor Clegane and another large man rode alongside her. As they drew closer, a rare curse fell from Sansa’s lips. The man was none other than Tormund Giantsbane. A very bald Tormund Giantsbane. Only his beard and brows hinted at wild ginger hair.

“Hello Pa,” Dacey said as they dismounted. “Why is your hair all gone?”

His expressive face dropped into one of his frowns. “An Other grabbed me by-“

“Oh don’t let him fool you,” Maege interrupted scathingly. “He lost is a bet is all.”

“Pa?!” Robb asked.

Sansa was so preoccupied by the general’s glistening scalp that the significance of Dacey’s greeting hadn’t registered. Pa. Pa. The pieces fell into place. The story, that ridiculous story that he told so many times was true! He’d fucked a she-bear, all right. She knew it by heart. He’d gotten lost close to home and Bear Island suffered from wildling raids because it was so near their southwestern coasts. He woke to find a she-bear’s pelt in the morning. It must have been the Mormont sigil. And the cubs.... Maege never married and Dacey was as tall as Tormund.....

“By the gods,” Sansa muttered. “Alysanne?”

Maege smiled kindly. Tormund was apparently good for her mood, or maybe she just hated the King’s court as much as Sansa. “No, only Dace and the two close in age are his.”

“No, I mean, she never married and when I asked Dacey who the father of her children were, she said you turn into bears and mate in the woods. It all makes so much sense!”

Maege threw back her head and cackled. Tormund grinned mischievously and even half of Sandor’s lips twisted into a smile. The big wildling wrapped his daughter into a hug that lifted her off the ground. Lady and Grey Wind watched him disdainfully, but didn’t reprimand him.

Three other riders dismounted soon after. If any of them were surprised by the family reunion, they did not show it. The first was a beautiful blonde woman named Val that Sansa vaguely remembered Jon mentioning. The second was a striking young man introduced as the son of the Magnar of the the Thenns and last was a red haired woman named Ygritte. It took every ounce of self control for Sansa not to gape. Oh Jon, she thought sadly. His first love that had died in his arms was now in his home. She had to write him immediately.

“The FUCK?!” The girl yelped.

Grey Wind was padding toward her curiously, but the spearwife had no way of knowing the creature’s intentions.

“Sorry,” Robb cringed. “We- he’s just curious. Grey Wind, to Dacey.”

The lean wolf stopped, sniffed at the girl, and went to stand in front of Dacey.

“You wargs?” Ygritte asked with narrowed eyes. She wasn’t beautiful. Her round nose and face were too common for that and her teeth were horribly crooked. Her ferocity, however, would have been evident without Sansa’s prior knowledge.

“Yes,” Sansa said simply.

Ygritte visibly shuddered while Tormund harrumphed approvingly.

“The past is repeating itself,” Sigorn Thenn said ominously. He had a bit of a hooked nose that was probably attractive before it had been broken. His hair was styled in the strange way of his people. Even the other Free Folk kept their hair fairly plain. The Thenns shaved theirs in interesting ways and tattooed the skin. The Magnor’s son had only a long strip of hair down the middle of his head that was braided tightly. Crude skeletons were inked onto either side.

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked.

His green eyes bulged a bit when he noticed her. His eyes started to roam down, but a grunt from Jon had Sigorn Thenn had him grimacing in apology instead.

“You do not know?” He asked, his pale cheeks rising in color.

“No, probably not,” she muttered. “We are willing to share whatever knowledge we have. We hope you will edo the same.”

“Your people need to be settled in first, of course,” Robb interjected.

“Ygritte and I will get to it,” Sigorn said.

“I’ll come with you lot. I can’t leave you alone with the Tall Talker or you’ll turn us around,” Val said with a long suffering sigh.

Sansa left them all to it and walked over to Clegane. He peered down at her blankly.

“I’ll take Stranger.”

“The fuck you will.”

She smiled and reached for the reigns anyway. “I see your adventure hasn’t improved your spirits.”

“Don’t know about my spirits but damn near froze my balls off.”

Stranger wasn’t the type of horse to be petted, so she scratched his nose once and let him be. He huffed in greeting. It was better than a bite.

“Are you happy, though?” She asked, too afraid to take her eyes off the horse. “Or at least less unhappy?”

“What do you care?”

“It’s my duty,” she said. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the entire truth. They were silent long enough for the group to have dispersed. She glanced up, suddenly afraid that he had snuck off. He was very quiet for such a large man.

“Aye, girl,” he finally said, his brows nearly touching. “I’m less unhappy.”

She simply nodded and began walking his horse to the stables. She had the worst urge to hug him.

 

Three short knocks sounded at the door. The old wildling cook opened the heavy door to the crypts. Sandor Clegane burst through. The scars on his face had been ripped open. Blood gushed down the planes of his face as he scouted for her. His big hands were full of swords. Sansa realized, with a pang, that she recognized all three of them.

“Sandor?!” She cried, rushing to meet him. The children scurried away into the shadows as he stomped by them.

“Take them,” he ordered. “Might do you some good later on.”

She passed the swords on to an old woman. Sansa’s heart skipped in alarm when Sandor started unbuckling his own sword belt.

“What are-“

“Listen, little bird,” he said, pushing his axe into her hand, “we’ve fallen. You’ll need these more than we do if you go south.”

“But why are you going back?!” She cried.

“You know better than to ask that,” he said nastily. His grey eyes scanned her face and softened.

“You can’t talk me out of this little bird,” he said gently, squeezing her hand around the hilt.

Her blue eyes stared in to his sad grey ones. They had come a long way. He’d never stopped protecting her each time fate had put them together. It had been years since Blackwater and she still regretted staying in that castle.

Her lips were on his before she knew what she was doing. He froze. Sandor smelled like smoke and tasted like blood, but she felt safe. He began kissing her back. The hand on hers slipped around her waist and the other caressed her face. Just as the sadness settled back in, his pulled away.

“Give them hell,” she whispered.

He nodded, committing every line of her dirty face to memory. Then, abruptly, he kissed the top of her head and ran to his doom.

 

Sandor sensed that she wanted to be alone. He left her at the stables without a word. After doting on Stranger, even leaving a braid in his mane that she knew his master would curse, Sansa rushed off to send a warning about Ygritte to Jon. It was there in the rookery that Dacey cornered her.

“Do you love him?” The older woman asked without preamble.

Sansa sniffed haughtily. “I don’t know what it is you speak of.”

The She-Bear, Daughter of Tormund Giantsbane, Warrior-Queen of Winterfell, crossed her arms and stared. Sansa cracked under her disdain in a heartbeat. Mance Rayder was a cold man to have lasted hours.

Sansa stroked a raven’s feathers as she spoke. “He was the only man that never took anything from me. Only a song a long time ago. We were two lonely old friends at the end of the world so I took a kiss from him.”

She wiped at the tears that threatened to fall.

“I love him, yes, but I’m not in love with him. I will always care for him. If it weren’t me, Arya or Jon would declare him pack as well. It might be foolish, but I just want him to be happy. I can’t do it again, Dacey. I can’t send him off to his death again.”

The tears fell anyway, but she didn’t sob. Instead, Sansa glared at her friend as if she were death come to cart him off.

“And I here I came to lecture you,” Dacey sighed.

“Lecture me? Whatever for?! You’re the one with a wilding father, their general no less. A man I adore! And don’t even get me started on the babe!”

Dacey’s stern mouth thinned. “How did you- the damn direwolves!”

“We can hear it. Robb noticed first.”

Her brother had taken her aside and told her of his suspicions the week before. They were correct. Lady’s sensitive ears pick up a quicker, fainter heartbeat along with Dacey’s strong, steady one. Though ecstatic, they agreed to let the expecting mother to announce it in her own time.

“Hear it?! What do you hear?!” It was strange to see a fierce woman so giddy.

“A very fast, very soft heartbeat. I was worried and asked Lewin- I told him it was a servant- and he said it was how all babes sound.”

Dacey enveloped Sansa in a tight hug.

“Father will be beyond happy. He’s always wanted more children.”

The girls separated, both of them now with shining eyes.

“Aye, he’s a good man.”

“Do you love him?” Sansa asked scathingly.

“Oh piss off.”

They laughed as they climbed down the stairs. Lady licked at both their hands in the foyer. Sansa halted with her hand on the door as she remembered. “What were you going to lecture me on?”

Dacey shook her head. “Only that you’re a woman now and you might need to be reminded what that entails. Especially being the prettiest one above the Neck...except for maybe that Val girl, but my point is that Jon is already half in love with you-“

“Jon?!”

“Umber not Snow.”

“Oh.” And then, “oh.”

“Oh,” Dacey agreed.

Sansa backed away from the door, lest some rookery boy barrel in and hit her. “I’ll be more careful. It wasn’t a problem before. No one wanted to marry a traitor. ”

“Jon’s a good man. He’d make a great husband.”

“Yes. Jon’s a good man, a fierce warrior. But he’s a good man. I’m not a good woman, not anymore. I don’t want to have to protect my husband from himself or have him judge the things I must do. And I don’t want children until this war’s over.”

“Fair enough. You might pick someone though. Betrothals can last a long while to only be broken.”

“Says the pregnant betrothed.”

Dacey smirked. “I’d like to see your father try. Might be fun.”

Sansa hurried out of the tower. There were some things even two lifetimes couldn’t prepare you for.

Ygritte and Magnar of Thenn wandered through the gate as Sansa stepped into the courtyard. She watched them for a moment. They didn’t walk very close or speak at all. It didn’t seem as though they were together, but she didn’t know them well enough to know for certain. Jon had been warned of her presence at least.

“Good afternoon,” Sansa said as way of greeting.

Ygritte was pretending not be impressed with the castle. She put on an even greater show when she realized Sansa had arrived. The wildling girl frowned and eyed her with distaste.

“Would you like to join me for lunch? Or would you like me to show you to your rooms?”

“Our rooms?!” Ygritte asked incredulously.

“You are honored guests of Winterfell.”

“We don’t need no rooms!”

“I’ll not say no to a room in a warm castle,” Sigorn Thenn said with an amused grin. “Tormund won’t neither.”

“That prick’ll do whatever he can fuck his bear again.”

The young man shrugged. “I would too.”

“You men are fucking stupid,” Ygritte swore.

Sansa wished she could have seen Jon with her. It was obvious why they’d fallen in love.

“What’s so funny for you to smile all big, my lady?” Ygritte spat. She squared off with Sansa as much as she could at their contrasting height in a desperate bid to prove her dominance. Sansa didn’t take it to heart. The Free Folk were hesitant and fearful. Ygritte wanted to protect herself and her people.

“I think my sister will like you.”

“Then I’ll like her more than you.”

“Ygritte!”

Sansa chuckled. “It’s quite alright, I promise.”

“How come you talk so different?” She asked, her big eyes squinted small.

“I was meant to marry into the south. The northern accent isn’t desirable so I was taught how to speak properly as a child. Whatever they deemed proper anyway. As you might say, it was fucking stupid.”

Ygritte harrumphed. She eyed Sansa again, no less angrily than before. After a while, the shorter woman hatefully announced, “You can take me to my room.”

Sansa turned to hide her smile, more pleased that she’d passed the test than she’d ever admit. 

——————

With as many feasts as they were having, it seemed like there would be nothing left for winter. The hall was as crowded as it had been when Robert visited, though nowhere near as festive. The atmosphere wasn’t unpleasant. Sansa wasn’t surprised, however, that the Free Folk chose to sit on the left and the kneelers on the right. It was hopeful that they seemed hesitant and curious more than fearful of one another. On the dais, the Starks and their lords were interspersed with the wildling leaders.

As drinks were served, Robb stood and called for attention. 

“Free Folk, welcome to Winterfell. May this be the first meal of many that we share together.”

There was a polite cheer as Robb sat back down. A few of the families openly gaped at the platters of food that were served in front of them. A boy, probably not old enough for a name, was pointing at the chandelier and babbling away to his mother.

Sansa sat between Val and the Thenn heir. Their discomfort was palpable.

“You always eat like this?” Val asked.

“No. There’s usually not this many people here.”

“You eat up here though?”

“When we sup in the hall, yes. We eat as a family and invite some of our people every time. Everyone from a lord to a cupbearer is welcome to fill the seats on the dais. Lately it’s just been Robb and his friends in here, though. We’re all very busy.”

“Who can eat at the castle?”

Sansa shrugged. “Whoever lives in the vicinity and wants to. Most choose to dine at home with their families, so it’s usually only those that reside in the castle.”

“It’s not that different from Mance’s tent, I guess,” Val said more to herself than anyone.

They lapsed into silence. Lord Thenn was too occupied with scarfing his food down to talk and Val was studying the room. Sansa envied her. She wished she had the chance to explore new castles and lands, study their music and dress. Arya might join her. Her brothers could never be bothered.

She and Jeyne Poole, who was seated across from her, were going over their plans for Winter Town the next morning when there was a soft tap on her shoulder. A little boy with shaved hair held a scroll. It bore the Baratheon sigil. She traded the scroll for a pastry and opened it with a sense of dread. She read it, sighed, and asked for Val to pass it down to her brother.

“Bad news?” the Thenn asked.

“Yes. Well, no. The King demands a Stark at his royal wedding. That was the official invitation.” She was sure she would get a rather unofficial one soon.

“You don’t want to go? I thought ladies liked that sort of thing,” Val said. The question seemed genuine.

“I did once. It’s a long trip and I don’t like their games.”

“Didn’t the queen get killed for fucking her brother?” Sigorn asked.

“She did.”

“Ha! I want to go,” he declared.

“Are there many Thenns here?” She asked.

“No. Just a dozen. Father sent me to spy.”

Jeyne giggled. “You’re not a very good spy then.”

He shrugged . “I know what I need to.”

“Which is?”

“The Starks are worthy of our loyalty.” His gaze trailed to Lady licking at a bowl of gravy behind Tormund and Robb.

“You’ve decided rather quickly.”

“The Thenns are not the Free Folk. We don’t move around from coast to coast or change tribes with each rising of the sun. Our memories are long. We speak the Old Tongue. We follow the First Ways of the First Men. We remember, Stark. We remember how the direwolves pushed the Others back.”

“How? How did we do it?”

“Songs never said. Only said they did and we helped.”

Sansa frowned and sat back in her seat.

“So I can go to this wedding, then?”

“You are free to go wherever you choose. It’s a long journey and they’re not like us.”

“I’ll go to then,” Val piped in. “Already the world seems so big. I can’t imagine it getting bigger.”

“There are more people in King’s Landing than in the North combined.”

Her eyes grew big. “All in one city? It must be huge.”

“It is. And smelly. Very smelly.”

“You been there before?” Sigorn asked.

The words stuck in Sansa’s mouth. She found herself gazing at Sandor dining with the Winterfell guards.

“He yours?” The young man asked, following her gaze.

“Of a sort. He’s not a prisoner, but it’s best for him up here. I think he’ll like it in time.”

“No. Is he your man?”

“Oh. No.”

“You have a man?”

“No.”

Sigorn studied her with an unreadable expression. “Good.”

Sansa swallowed her wine in one go and studiously ignored Jeyne’s kicks to her shin.

“You’re not what I expected,” he went on.

“What do you mean?”

“They say your sister is a killer and you’re her witch. You sacrifice unruly girls to have visions of those who do wrong.”

“That’s a lie,” Jeyne said, her button nose in the air. “Its only the blood of unruly men we need.”

Sansa laughed. The thought of a rancorous Northern party in King’s Landing almost made her regret killing Cersei. Almost.


	15. Night Watch

They took a ship from White Harbor to Gulltown. The only time a Stark would ever look upon the Twins would be to destroy it. Robb, however, refused to arrive at King’s Landing by ship. The kings of old would rise from the crypts, he said. He also wanted an excuse to frolic around the country on horseback.

  
Sansa did not mind riding. She wasn’t as natural or accustomed to it as Robb, Jon, and Arya but she truly didn’t mind it. It could be enjoyable. Robb set a hard pace, partly because being in the saddle on an open road was one of his greatest joys and partly out of necessity. The Wildlings didn’t complain, but she could see they weren’t at home in the saddle either. Making camp was where they excelled. Their companions challenged them to forgo the comforts of keeps and inns and Stark pride demanded they answer it.

Sansa detested camping. The only other time she’d slept in the wild was after her escape with Theon. Every sound, every touch, any small movement that caught her eye was Ramsey. Lady was as on edge as Sansa. The growls, snarls and pacing grated on the others. It frightened even the Thenns. Robb was a bit confused that her anxiety had ebbed as they grew closer to the city. That damned city she’d grown up in.

The northern party would be one the smallest of all the noble houses. Val, Sigorn, and four of his men were all the Wildlings that came. Sansa spent most of her time with Val, Alys and Jeyne. None of the women had anything to prove by riding themselves to complete weariness. Robb was accompanied by the Greatjon and twenty good men. They were all more concerned about a quick exit than a show of strength. The three direwolves were enough for that. Sansa did wish that a giant had come along, if only to see Margaery’s face.

Sansa allowed the steady movements of her embroidery to calm her nerves. The low light made it difficult to tell which beads and threads were which. A decade of practice made it easier. She could probably do it blind. She might have to try it if she got too bored at the capital.

Soft footsteps sounded and soon Arya joined her. At Winterfell, they’d gotten word that some wildlings had bent the knee to their father after he slew a white walker. The heirs waited as long as they could, but didn’t get to say goodbye to him. Jon had returned to be the Stark in Winterfell with Arya only two days before they were forced to leave.

“This is stupid,” Arya declared for the hundredth time. She’d only had two nights rest at Winterfell before they departed for White Harbor. She grumbled, of course, but everyone knew she didn’t really mind. Arya was not one to settle in one place for an extended time.

“It’s the last time we’ll have to do it.”

“Jon never had to do it at all.”

Sansa smiled down as she tied off the last thread. “Woe to us all if he had.”

“It’s only gonna get worse if you sulk over it, whatever it is you’re sulking over.”

She rolled her eyes as she stood and shook out her skirts. “Arya, you are my second favorite sibling, but you are even worst at consolation than Cersei Lannister.”

“What?!” Arya said, hurrying to block the entrance to their tent. The wildlings thought it hilarious that they used a tent with weather so warm and clear, then quickly accepted their own when they experienced how terrible bugs could be in summer. “Who’s your favorite?!”

“Bran, of course,” Sansa said nonchalantly, brushing by her sister.

“Bran?! I always thought it was Robb with me and Jon tied for the end. ”

She handed one bundle to Arya and hefted another two into her own arms as she explained. “Jon might have been my second favorite if I hadn’t been trying to please Mother. Bran though….Bran and I always had our head in the clouds. We were the dreamers and all of you were the fighters. What about you? Jon’s obviously first. Who’s your second? Robb or Rickon?”

“Robb.” Arya was unapologetic. “He never made me stop fighting or wearing Bran’s clothes. Once he came down a hall, saw me with a training sword and turned right round.”

“I’m worried about him,” Sansa confessed.

The first morning aboard the ship, she’d awoken to find her brother with eyes as tumultuous as the sea. His mood became more volatile with each inch they moved south. His sparring had become wild and dangerous. Only Jon Umber and Sigorn Thenn could match his ferocity. Jon beat him as many times as he lost and the Thenn, while talented, had trained his instincts to fight the walking dead. He swung his axes to disable joints and remove limbs.

“It’s different with you, you know,” Arya said as she chewed on her lip. “Being sisters is different from being with the rest of them. Even Jon. It’s not more, it’s just…different.” Sansa smiled softly. “It is.”

The sisters made their way to the campfire, the youngest signaling for guards to replace Sansa’s watch. Really, the watches were only sitting around and listening for an alarmed direwolf. The girls wedged themselves in between their brother and Val.

Sansa scoffed at her brother skinning rabbits for dinner. The direwolves were all too eager to bring whatever creature they could hunt down. It was adorable at first, but quickly spiraled into annoyance on the men’s behalves. They had to settle for proving their masculinity by preparing dinner instead of hunting it. Men were fickle creatures and the girls reaped the benefits of their foolishness.

“We have gifts for our guests,” Sansa announced. The chatter died down as the heaviest of the bundles was passed for Sigorn’s men to share. A smaller one followed for the heir himself. Val’s was the lightest. She opened the pack with nimble hands.

“I know white is one of our house colors and realize you are not representing us, but I’ve noticed you like wearing it,” Sansa said.

She, Alys and Jeyne had spent the past weeks sewing suitable dresses and tunics for the spearwife. They’d constructed them from much lighter fabrics than the animal skins their friend was accustomed to. The dress Val shook out was white with red stitching. Red beads flowed up the sleeves and hem to make weirwood branches.  
The Wildlings had been wearing old clothes that were found in Winterfell. It made them look even more disheveled than their usually eclectic attire. Furs and animal skins would make them sick with heat in King’s Landing.

“This is beautiful,” Val murmured.

“There are a couple of tunics and breeches too, but not many. It’s easier to make dresses,” Alys said apologetically.

“Thank you, truly.”

“I doubt you’ll be thanking me when the men come after you,” Sansa said dryly.

Robb smiled like a wolf. “I hope they do. I’d like to test their grit against the North.”

“I don’t need no man to protect me from men,” Val said with a hint of playful derision.

Nothing good could come out of their flirting. The woman could either distract Robb from whatever madness he was sinking in to or distract him from his duties altogether. Her brothers did not have successful records with their women. Poor Jon had unknowingly seduced his own aunt. Bastard’s luck indeed.

“This is a fine gift,” a deeper voice said.

Sigorn was holding up a jerkin. It was cut in the northern style, but held no resemblence to anything a Northman would wear. His new garments were deep brown and embroidered with gold thread and beads to resemble the bronze weapons and scaled of his people.

“It will only get hotter the further south we go. You may not be sworn to us but you are our guests and we will provide for you.”

The men grumbled their thanks while Val took the time to examine each of her garments. Arya easily slipped back in to a macabre conversation with some Umber men. Sansa let the warmth and voices wash over her, let the comfort kiss her skin. This way of living, of sharing food and fire with new friends and old family, was what they were working for. It was easy to forget when one went weeks without the sun or days without food. It was easy to forget how to live.

“You alright?” Val asked softly. The amber glow from the camp softened her harsh coloring. The freckles on her nose were more noticeable than ever.

Sansa gave her a weak smile. “Yes, thank you.”

“You don’t like the forest,” she noted.

Sansa chewed on her lip, then abruptly stood. Her friend followed. The girls strolled arm in arm around the camp.

“Would you believe that we didn’t have dreams?” Sansa finally asked. “That we lived it all instead?”

Val was silent for a bit as looked up at the moon. The soft night warmed her harsh coloring. She looked like a fairy princess with her hair turned silver and her freckles dancing across her nose.

“Yes,” she finally said. “It makes more sense. There are things your sister can do that no dream could teach.”

Sansa nodded. “I’m sorry for lying to you, but it’s easier for most to believe that we had visions.”

Val waved it off. “People can be fools. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t got to know you so well. But what’s all this got to do with you scared of the woods?”

 _It’ll help to talk about it_ , Jon had said.  
 _Did you ever find your person?_ Robb had asked.  
Could Val be her person? Did it matter if she had the opportunity to unburden her soul?

  
“I....I was a prisoner. He raped me and cut me and killed my brother. He liked to hunt girls, he had hounds trained for it. When I escaped, it was in the middle of a blizzard and I was on my own in the woods. We just kept waiting and waiting for the hounds to howl of the snow to crunch under hooves. I still hear the dogs.”

She pulled up her sleeve, revealing the puckered skin of the dog bite.

“He caught you?” Val asked, light brows furrowed.

“No. This wasn’t from the woods,” Sansa bit out. She worked very, very hard at not letting the memory rise. Of how beautiful that day was, how he kept the windows open.

Jon’s voice came so clear she startled, expecting him to have appeared beside her. _It’ll help to talk about it._

“He didn’t feed his two favorite hounds for a day. He rubbed almond and hazelnut butter over my body. My hips, my legs, in between. Smeared it inside me. Poured kitchen grease on me. I would have rather dealt with that, with that burning, than what he had planned. The planning scared me more than anything. What else did he have preparing while he was doing that?

He chained me to the floor. He couldn’t use leather or rope in case the dogs bit through it. I stopped fighting after a while. I went to a place inside my mind, through the halls of Winterfell, closing doors behind me, until I reached my old bedchamber. The fire was going and Lady was curled up on my bed. He could never reach me there, no matter how hard he tried.”

Chirping crickets and the men’s laughter were the only sounds in the night. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to look at Val. Talking felt too good, too light, to have something awful come out of it.

“Have you been with a man since? Or a woman?”

Sansa’s mouth dropped before she could stop it. There was a darkness in Val, a light in her eyes that hadn’t quite been there before. There was no pity or disgust to be seen, however, and for that, Val had unkowningly earned Sansa's unwavering loyalty.

“N-no. Of course not.”

  
Val frowned. “Maybe you should. With someone your trust. I’ve heard it helps some women.”

Heat rose to Sansa’s cheeks and she knew her face was as red as her hair.

Val sneered, not unkindly. “Blushing like a maid. Why not ask that big Jon fellow?”

Sansa sighed as she hooked her elbow around Val’s again. They began walking the perimeter again, this time with the trees on their right.

“He’ll want more and I can’t give him that. I don’t want to give him that.”

Val hummed. “True; he’s a soft one. You’re more like me. What about Sigorn? He’s good looking, if a bit too pretty for my tastes. He’d be kind a kind lover if you asked.”

The girls stopped outside of Sansa’s tent. Val, in a rare show of affection, pulled her into a tight hug. “It’s something to think about at least.”

Think about it, she did. The next night, she slipped off into Sigorn Theon’s tent to await him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Sorry about my hiatus. :( I was going through some serious depression. 
> 
> I’m busy now, but not a walking zombie anymore. I’ll try to fit in chapters between work and school. 
> 
> The part about walking through Winterfell when she was tortured came from another fanfic that I know I’ve read more than once. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the title :( if anyone knows, please leave it below so I can link it.
> 
> Do you want a tent scene or cut to straight to King’s Landing and the Royal Wedding?


	16. Den of Snakes and Thorns

Oberyn Martell was a bit of an explorer. He had seen most of Essos and Westeros. There was even that brief stint to Valyria that resulted in only half an hour on land before he was forced to retreat. He had never desired to see North, that dull, barren tundra that turned your limbs black. However, Oberyn Martell was not ashamed to admit that he had been very, very wrong.

  
He, Arriane, and Ellaria had been greeting their oh so glorious King Robert and the thorns in his neck when a page burst in. The boy whispered something to Renly, ever inseparable from Loras Tyrell. The Red Viper claimed all responsibility for that relationship. It was one of his favorite accomplishments. And there were many, many accomplishments.

  
The boy melted back into the shadows as Renly stepped forward with an expression mixed with curiosity and disdain.

  
“The Starks have arrived. With wolves as big as horses and....what appears to be wildlings.”

  
Curious indeed. The wolves were obviously a breed of husky, but the wildlings.... Why would Ned Stark allow them through the Wall? What was he preparing for? First the Lannister’s, then refusing to be Hand and now this. Ari raised an eyebrow. She was right. The new generation of lords were indeed casting off the practices of their fathers. It was undeniable, especially if even the Starks were playing this new game.

  
“They brought their damn wolves?!” Robert bellowed.

  
“It seems so, brother.”

  
“Fucking Starks.”

  
Renly chuckled. “Wolves and wildlings. The Northerners truly are barbarians then.”

  
Whatever disdain Oberyn held for the Starks, he would not allow such blatant prejudice to stand. He sauntered forward and raised his voice so that it would carry through the cavernous hall. “By that logic the Dornish are savages.”

“Oh, come off it old friend, we both know that’s true,” an amiable voice teased.

Oberyn turned to the sheep at his back to see Willas Tyrell leaning on his walking stick. A golden thorny vine twined around the polished oak and his friend had grown a neat chestnut beard. The heir to Highgarden was one of those rare men that grew more handsome with age. The court broke out into whispers and murmurs as the two men embraced each other. The joust was one of Oberyn's only regrets, though Will constantly reprimanded him for the sentiment. It was a difficult life, yes, but it had resulted in a strong friendship.

They were still chatting animatedly when the herald’s voice called out. It shook and trembled as he said, “Lord Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and his sisters Sansa and Arya, accompanied by Lord Jon Umber of the Last Hearth and Lady Alys Karstark of Karl’s Hold.”

Immediately, the room fell into a hush that was only interrupted by horrified gasps of the noble ladies. Oberyn and Willas shared a glance and fought their way to the aisle like boys. Lord Tyrell was not above using his cane to clear a path, a trick learned from his grandmother no doubt.

  
Oberyn Martell had indeed been very, very wrong. The Starks had not brought some breed of dog built for the snow. They had brought wolves. Wolves! Wolves that loped through the crowd with a lethal grace, indeed the size of a fully grown quarter horse. The largest, probably the only male, was all grey with cunning yellow eyes. His first littermate was darker, more brown, and panted in the heat. Her fangs were as long as a dagger.

The smallest wolf came to an abrupt halt. The crowd grew a collective breath. Even Oberyn found himself leaning forward. The wolf had the same sharp yellow eyes as her brother, but was the only one with white in her coat. She peered through the powdered faces and bright silks. Her snout pointed at her prey, her lips trembling as if to hold back a snarl. A beautiful woman with red hair and red silks gazed back with wide, red eyes. Stannis Baratheon’s priestess. The Red Witch they called her. The two of them had positioned themselves against the wall, away from the King and his thorns.

“Come, Lady,” a soft voice called.

Oberyn’s gaze was rooted to the speaker. In fact, most men seemed unable to tear their eyes away when they looked past the wolves. Sansa Stark carried herself like a queen. She walked with an elegant confidence that could never be faked. It was something that could only be earned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone with that poise, that entitlement. But it wasn’t her sure strides that kept his attention. Not was it her shimmering embroidery or thick red hair. First, it was the way her breasts moved with every step. It was mesmerizing. Her gown was pale grey with tight, long sleeves and a skirt that hugged her hips. It was modest and unbearably enticing. The bodice extremely low cut, the sharp lines of fabric meeting just below her waist. The scar, the horrible, thick, puckered line of red tissue began at her breasts and ended at the deep vee. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Yes, that was how a scar like that was made. From the belly to the heart. A brutal way to die. But the girl was not dead.

And....seven hells her brother's throat bore the marks of death as well.

Yes. Oberyn indeed had been very, very wrong. The North was far more than a barren tundra.

So enthralled was he, that he barely noticed the king speak. He only heard a deep voice with a thick, rolling accent. Desire tugged at his gut.

“Dramatics, Your Grace,” Lord Robb said. Under his auburn beard, full lips were pulled up into an arrogant smirk. Oberyn wanted to claim them. A glance at Ellaria revealed that she did too. “I couldn’t resist seeing how you southerners in your pretty silks handle a direwolf.”

A direwolf?! Seven hells. Of course they were direwolves. The Starks had fucking direwolves. There was something at play here. Something terrible. Oberyn tried to speak with Willas, but his friend was still enraptured with Sansa Stark. Oh yes. He would have to tread carefully.

“You pleased, boy?” The King asked sourly.

The boy looked directly at Margaery Tyrell. “Aye, I’m mighty pleased.”

Robert erupted into laughter, his belly jiggling with mirth. “Gods help us, it’s Brandon reborn. Lock away the girls and ale. He’ll leave none for the rest of us.”

The crowd laughed, but the Starks did not. The one called Sansa glanced around the room as if searching for the ghost of her uncle. Her stood silently with the air of a mother waiting for a child’s tantrum to subside, that arrogant smirk morphing into a snarl.

“You brought an Umber too, I see. We’ll not have drinks for a year when this wedding is over.”

The man that bowed was even bigger than Aero Hotah. Hotah was all muscles and strength, and Oberyn was sure this young Jon Umber man was too, but he didn’t carry the same grotesque physique that many large men did. He was simply _big_.

“And wildlings, I hear. Have they not come to pay homage to their king?”

“You are not their king,” Lady Sansa said in that delicate way of hers. “You signed the treaty that stated so before you left Winterfell.”

“So to whom do they pledge their allegiance?” The Queen of Thorns asked. He wondered when she would make herself known. She had been watching beside her granddaughter, eyeing the court like a hawk.

Sansa bowed her head in respect. “Themselves. They will follow our laws whilst they are in Westeros.”

“Are they going back, then?” Olenna barked.

“They plan to.”

“And you don’t think they will?”

“Oh Mother’s Mercy, I thought this was an arrival, not a small council meeting. Go sort yourselves out. And put those damn beasts in the Godswood. I told your father a wolf is no pet.”

The northerners bowed once more before they made their exit, their direwolves trotting at their side. It wasn’t until they left that Oberyn realized that the youngest girl had escaped his attention. He couldn’t even say if her hair was red like a Tully.

Oberyn shared a heavy glance with Willas. The Dornish were not the only ones to underestimate the Starks. Perhaps they hadn’t been hiding with their heads in the snow after all.


	17. Lunching on Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Dialogue.

It was stupid, she knew, but she couldn’t resist. The throne room was empty. Everyone who was anyone was preparing for the luncheon that marked the beginning of the wedding festivities. The throne cast a long, jagged shadow on the marble floor. A floor where she had bled and cried for years. She was just a child. A _child_. 

Sansa shuddered as she fought back a wave of anger. Anger, not fear. Arya would be proud. 

“Ah, the Red Witch of the North,” a voice called. 

Sansa turned to find Olenna Tyrell on the arm of Lord Varys. It was a shame she’d never spent more time with them. Lady Olenna would have had many great lessons. Her flowering speech certainly would not have taken place with tales of incestuous births over a glass of wine. Sansa curtsied as much as her tight gown would allow.

The first time she’d been in this room, she’d been trying to conform to Southern standards. Her dress was pale and cut modestly, her hair done in elaborate twists to imitate Cersei. This gown was high necked, sleeveless and open in the back. She chose a grey cotton and embroidered a red and blue design on the neck and chest to represent the Tullys. Val had braided and teased her hair to look like it was shaved on the sides as Siggy’s was. Sansa did not bother to cover her arms or her back. She would not hide who she was any longer. 

Two massive guards followed the Queen of Thorns. Everything about them was identical, from their genetics to their spears. It made hers look a bit disheveled. Siggy sent the gloomy Tor as a spy. She didn’t blame him. It was a wise plan of action. Robb assigned a man from closer to the neck to accompany her. All of his men seemed to get along with their wildlings counterparts, but they couldn’t take any chances.

“Lady Olenna, Lord Varys.”

“Admiring that monstrosity? You know, I can’t recall a redhead to ever sit on it. Plenty of blondes, of course, but it won’t be long before all who remember the Targaryens will die out and a dynasty will be nothing more than words in a lesson book.”

She tried to imagine how Aegon the Conqueror would have looked on it. All that came to mind was a blond Jon. It didn’t suit him. None of this did. She’d never seen Dragonstone, but she imagined the odds Targaryen coloring would suit their people better. 

No one was suited for this place. The realm might be better off if it was never there to begin with. Why had Aegon and his sisters conquered it? The only good thing that could have came with it was a unified force that could be rallied against.....

Seven hells.

Could it have been Rhaegar’s prophecy? Was the prophecy passed down through generations of Targaryens, that they would be the ones to throw back the Others? Visenya was said to practice dark arts. Then again, Sansa was too and the most she was capable of was warging when she was upset.

Olenna tutted. “And here I thought the Starks had finally learned to play the game. Your thoughts are all over face, girl.”

“Forgive me, it’s just.....I was thinking of Visenya Targaryen. They say she practiced dark arts just as I am alleged to do. Yet I’ve only been cursed with visions by the Old Gods. Who is to say it was no different for her? Or is it that she had neither magic nor visions and powerful women are always suspect?”

The six of them did not bother to hide how they stared at Sansa’s bare arms. The dog bite on her right forearm, the flayed skin from the inside of her left elbow to her shoulder, the cuts and burns on the right. There were so many cuts. Ramsey did adore using knives in be-

“May I?” Varys asked softly. 

Taken aback, Sansa slowly nodded and held out her arms. His soft hands felt strange on her scars. She no longer knew anyone with such softness. Sigorn’s hands were rough and strong when they traced her skin. 

“They certainly feel real,” he murmured. 

Sansa’s lips turned up in amusement. “You are the last one to deny magic.”

His eyes flicked to hers. They were a striking hazel, one that could shift colors with wigs and robes. It was almost as if he were born to his role. Perhaps they all were. What was it Jon said? Gods did what they wanted and pissed on everything else. 

“You told me about your fire in the Crypts of Winterfell. A battle was waging outside and you said you never thought to be grateful for fire.”

“Why fire?” He asked sharply.

“It’s the only thing that the dead fear.”

Lady Olenna snorted. “The dead? Was it an army of grumpkins and snarks and giants?” 

“Giants?” Tor asked incredulously. “You don’t think giants is real?”

Olenna eyebrows nearly disappeared into her headpiece to have been addressed so casually. “Of course not, boy.”

The wildling threw back his head in laughter. The half of his hair that wasn’t shaved fell near to his shoulder blades and his crooked nose blocked out most of the throne.

“We shoulda brought a giant to see their faces,” he said. Erik, the other northmen, smirked in agreement. 

“No,” Sansa said coldly. She did not bother to hide her disgust from the Tyrell matriarch. “What did they call us yesterday? Barbarians? Imagine how they would treat giants, like an exotic animal instead of a people to be respected.”

“People?” Olenna asked incredulously. 

“They have a language, families, homes. What else would they be except for people?”

Olenna shook her head, the jewels on her necklace flashing in the light from the stained glass. “You Starks are an odd lot. Fearsome, but odd. I’ll believe your dead adversary when I see it.”

Sansa did not curtesy to them as they left. Her respect, once again, was misplaced. When would she learn? These people valued noone but themselves. They were more likely to sacrifice their neighbors than protect them. It was the opposite of what a liege lord should do. It was their duty. Sansa watched the odd pair hobble off back into the shadows, her stomach twisting. 

“I should not have lost my temper,” she said to no one in particular. 

“Maybe. But they need to know,” Erik offered. The Starks had noticed how emboldened the guards were after witnessing how interactive the Free Folk were. Sansa encouraged it. It was important to have numerous perspectives on issues. And, if she were being honest, it made her feel less alone.

“But we need their food,” she argued. 

“Piss on that,” Tor declared. “I’d rather starve than treat with an old sack of skin that calls giants animals.”

Sansa wanted to chastise him. What would he know of starving in the summer? He was a Thenn though, with skeletons tattooed on his exposed scalp. He was more familiar with the dreadful power of the Others than anyone. 

“I want to go home,” she confessed. 

The men grumbled their agreement and escorted her from the throne room. 

—————

The luncheon was almost as ridiculous as Joff’s wedding. Almost. It took place in the gardens, under the hot afternoon sun. Everything was gold. Gold with hints of black and green and so many damn roses. There were only five courses instead of seven, the current being a rosemary duck. The Starks and their guests were seated near the king’s platform. His fat figure dwarfed little Margarey Tyrell and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if this husband would also die mysteriously. Lady Ollena was smarter than that. If they waited out Robert’s lechery, they wouldn’t have to deal with Stannis.

“There aren’t many men that could steal me away in the night,” Jeyne jested. 

Val’s smile was cruel. “I don’t see many men at all. Look at how pretty that one is.”

The wildling motioned to none other than Prince Oberyn Martell. Sansa nearly choked on her wine. He lounged with his niece and paramour, gossiping over their sixth course of the opening luncheon. They looked completely at ease. Sansa, however, was melting under the sun.

“That one could kill you seven different ways without lifting a finger,” Sansa said darkly.She was tired, sweating, and cranky after her earlier conversation. Val wasn’t any better. She had removed the sleeves of her weirwood dress before she arrived. “He’s called the Red Viper because he’s so quick with his spear. He’s also an expert in poisons and potions.”

“Might be I’ll see just how quick he is with his spear is then,” Val crooned. 

“Discreetly, if you must at all,” Sansa said. 

“Would he do it? Most of them look like they’re afraid to look at me, let alone lie with me,” Val wondered. 

Alys laughed and began explaining how the Dornish were similar to the Free Folk. Sansa watched Robb at the King’s table instead of joining in. She’d forgotten how handsome he must be to all of the women here. Margaery must be wondering if the tile of queen really was worth a lecherous husband when she could have been married to someone like Robb. Lyanna came to mind.Dornish women never had to worry about such things. Perhaps Danaerys could implement those policies in her new rule. 

With that thought, she stood and straightened her skirt, motioning for Val to join her. The women twisted their way through the tables. The Martells grew silent as she approached them. 

Sansa curtsied to the heir of Dorne. “Good afternoon, Princess Arianne.”

The princess smiled a snake’s smile, her distrust thinly veiled. 

“Lady Stark, is it?” She asked. 

“Sansa, if you please.” 

“Sansa,” Ellaria Sand rolled the name on her tongue. It sounded exotic in her accent. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“Thank you,” she curtsied again, ignoring the way the paramour’s eyes roved over her tight gown. “May I be so forward as to invite myself to join you?” 

The three of them shared a curious glance but nodded and gestured to the open chairs beside Princess Arianne.

“This is my dear friend, Val,” Sansa said after they were seated. 

“Well met, Lady Val,” Oberyn said.

Sansa couldn’t hide her smirk. 

“I’m no lady pretty lord, but I thank you all the same,” Val said. 

“Val, this is _Prince_ Oberyn, his partner Ellaria, and his niece, the heir to Dorne, Princess Arianne,” Sansa introduced. “Val is still learning the intricacies of Westerosi politics. She is one of the Free Folk from beyond the wall.”

All three Martells eyed the women with new interest. Ellaria in particular looked most enthused. Sansa wasn’t sure how same sex relations were viewed by the Free Folk, but she was sure she’d find out by the end of the week. 

Val frowned at the king’s table. “I thought there was no more prince or princess.”

“Dorne never knelt to the throne. We keep our titles and laws,” Oberyn explained.

The wildling regarded him with new respect. “The Free Folk are no kneelers either, Prince. Though we’ve got no titles.”  
“There is a King Beyond the Wall, yes?” Arianne asked.

“We follow strength,” Val explained with a shrug. “Mance pulled together over ninety feuding clans and the giants. You lot named him the king beyond the wall.”

“Giants?” Oberyn asked. The prince had a new glint in his eye, one Sansa had seen on Samwell Tarly many times. 

“You should come see for yourself, Prince Oberyn,” Sansa suggested. “It would be nice to have a southerner confirm that our fanciful tales have come to life.”

“The north is full of all sorts of surprises,” Arianne drawled with a glance at Robb hurrying down the platform stairs. 

“We considered you for marriage,” Sansa confided. The princess raised her eyebrows in surprise. “But we couldn’t leave Winterfell or Sunspear without their heirs.”

“There are other ways to join our houses,” Arianne said. “I have a brother, Trystane, close to your age.”

“I’m not leaving the North if I can help it,” Sansa admitted. 

Robb stole a chair from a nearby table and plopped down next to Oberyn.He nodded in greeting and drained an abandoned glass of water. He barely gulped it down before he filled it again. Sansa half expected her brother to pour the pitcher over his head. 

“A brave man to take a cup from a master of poison,” the princess observed. 

“Death would be a mercy in this blasted heat,” Robb said. 

“Your sister invited us to Winterfell but I’m hesitant if it is as cold as you make it out to be,” Oberyn countered. 

“Please come,” Robb said seriously. “They might believe one of their own. I wouldn’t expect you to give us men, being so far away, but you could be moved to consider a donation to the Wall.”

“That is a long way to travel for maybe giants and white walkers,” Ellaria said. 

“Is it so hard to believe that they exist if direwolves and dragons have made their way back into the world?” Sansa asked softly.

Arianne stilled. “What do you know of dragons?”

Sansa shrugged. “I know that you offered me Trystane instead of Quentin.”

“Careful, Lady Wolf,” Oberyn trilled. 

Robb’s jaw clenched. The heat would not do well for his temper. 

“Of course, Prince Oberyn,” Sansa said. “Please consider my offer. We won’t, however, be offended if we don’t hear from you. It is a long trip and there is history between our houses.”

Oberyn shook his head sadly. “No, we do not blame the Starks for Rhaegar Targaryen stealing your Lyanna away. The little one is your sister, yes? She resembles Lyanna a great deal.”

“Still, what happened to your sister is a disgrace,” Robb said solemnly. 

“What happened to your sister?” Val asked the Dornishmen curiously. 

“It’s a sad tale. Would you like to hear it?” Ellaria asked. 

“Mind yourselves,” Robb warned seriously. “This one doesn’t need a direwolf to follow her around.”

Ellaria looked simply delighted. Arianne hooked Robb into a conversation that was much to flirtatious by the looks of it.

“May I ask about your scars?” Prince Oberyn inquired, leaning closer. 

Sansa smiled. “Of course.”

“They were given to you with your visions, yes?” 

“Yes. Do you doubt it?”

“It seems a harsh fate for one so noble and young.”

“Was your sister’s not?”

“Your scars speak of something more than murder.”

Sansa took a long drink of water. “He did not kill me. I did not let him kill me. I watched him die.”

“How do you mete out justice to someone who has yet to commit the crime?” 

Unease slithered in her stomach. Perhaps it would have been best if Ramsey had met some accident at Arya’s hands. A girl or three might have been saved. No, she thought with a frown. There would have been political ramifications to Roose Bolton’s death so soon after their altercation. Especially with Tywin Lannister slighted and his son gallivanting around the north. 

“You don’t,” she admitted. “You watch and you wait for your opportunity.”

“Like with the Lannisters?” The Prince sneered. 

“The Lannisters attacked my little sister when she caught them fucking,” Robb interrupted. 

“Must we speak of the Lannisters?” Sansa asked with a sigh. “I’ve had a terrible day.”

“Why?” Ellaria cooed seductively.

Seven hells, she was coming on to both women. At the same time! Sansa knew that the couple invited lovers into their bed, but four people together at once? She couldn’t wrap her mind around the logistics of it. 

“I was accosted by Olenna Tyrell and Lord Varys.” The Martells tutted in sympathy. “She was looking at Tor like he was a creature escaped from a menagerie and spoke of giants like animals. We’re hardly more than human in their eyes. It’s exhausting.”

Perhaps her tongue was too loose, but the ‘savage’ Dornishmen would understand. Besides, Sansa sorely hoped to wrangle them in to an alliance. 

“When’s the last time you trained? It’d do you some good.” Val badgered. 

Sansa frowned. “I don’t know.”

“You train?” The prince had that hungry look again. He’d be too curious to not come to the north if this luncheon dragged on any longer. 

“She’d be much better if she put effort into it,” Robb chastised. 

Arianne rolled her eyes at Sansa in commiseration. Perhaps the Princess heard the same argument from her uncle and cousins, warriors reknown in their own right. 

“And you Val? There are women warriors north of the wall, yes?” Oberyn inquired. 

Val’s smile was frightening. “Free folk don’t get married like you do. A man steals a woman to claim her; I stole a man of my own.”

Ellaria was not pleased. “You’re married then?”

Val looked past the couple with distant, blue eyes. “He’s dead. I burned him myself.”

“My condolences,” the princess said. 

“Do you lovely ladies fight?” Robb asked brightly. 

“Enough to defend ourselves,” she answered. 

“Brilliant!” Robb cried. “We should all spar together. The Free Folk would love to compare spear techniques, I’m sure. An hour before morning meal? You probably don’t rise as early as we do.”

Val looked at Sansa questioningly. 

“They have more daylight hours and need not rise so early,” she explained. 

“We even close our businesses at midday when it becomes too hot to work,” Ellaria said. 

“Yes, the Dornish have very....peculiar customs,” a suave voice interrupted. 

Sansa knew that voice. She remembered everything about that voice and the sickening mint smell that accompanied it.

“Littlefinger,” Oberyn spat. 

Robb’s blue eyes hardened. Sansa, however, let the ice freeze over her limbs, from her chest to her head to her toes as she turned to the intrusion. 

_I watched the blood gush out of your throat._

His roaming gaze no longer brought a chill in the light of day. It brought nothing. She had won the game against him. This time she was not playing alone. Still, it would have been entertaining to pester him with Lady if he had cornered her in some hallway as he used to. 

“I was a close friend of your mother’s, Lady Sansa. I was grief stricken when news of her death reached me. You look just like her. When I first saw you I-“

“I share Mother’s looks as well, I’m told. Do I have a similar effect on your delicate sensibilities?” Robb asked, a causal arrogance masking his disgust.

Baelish gave him his oiliest grin. “Of course, Lord Stark. Your mother was a strong woman and it shows in each of you.”

Robb frowned. “Are you familiar with my sister?”

“No, of course not. I only just intro-“

“Then why is she Lady Sansa and I Lord Stark?”

Petyr chuckled softly, but Robb continued before any more lies could spill from his thin lips. 

“I heard tale you were nearly gutted by one heir to Winterfell over his betrothed. You don’t want to know what we do for our sisters. Look at her like that again and you won’t be able to look at anything else.”

“Robb!” Sansa exclaimed. 

“My lord, you are mistaken-“

“You’re not a very good liar,” Val said with amusement. She used her short elk-bone dagger to cut off a piece of duck. 

“That’s a peculiar knife you have,” Oberyn said politely, always up for any sort of spar. 

“Made it from the thigh of a man that tried to steal my sister. Let him see it when I was done. Don’t think he liked it much.”

Petyr paled. “I see that I have come at a bad time. I hope we shall cross paths in more agreeable company, my lady.”

“Does it not get any more agreeable than a princess, Littlefinger?” Arianne sneered.

He ignored them all and left their table with a stiff bow. Sansa watched him go in silence. 

“Who’s he snivelling off to, I wonder?” Oberyn muttered. 

“Tywin Lannister,” Sansa answered abruptly. The Dornish stared at her. “Baelish thrives on chaos. War is a profitable business to men like him and Tywin Lannister has already moved the Mountain and his garrison to his eastern borders. Unofficially, of course.”

The prince draped an arm over Ellaria’s chair. “You seem very familiar with him.”

Sansa shrugged. “He bleeds like any other man. You know, I think I may join you for training after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your feedback!! It's amazing! Also, I fixed the previous chapter's spacing and edited for Oberyn to notice Robb's scars instead of Sansa. Thanks for @yessboss21 for pointing out that he has a beheading scar. I keep forgetting about that. I only thought he would have it from where he was stabbed and then Grey Wind is sewn on. Can't sew a head on if there's already one there, lol.
> 
> Did it actually seem like there were seven different people talking or did they all sound alike?


	18. Of Gods and Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has a bad couple of days. (Also a good summary for seasons 1-7).

The training yard had already divided itself when Smalljon led the charge, but they nearly jumped over the keep walls when the Dornish sauntered in. Clouds provided a respite from the unbearable heat of the day before. Val’s trousers, however, were not. Sansa borrowed her friend’s leggings and a shirt of Robb’s. The thin, dark fabric and soft binding on her chest allowed her skin to breathe. Nonetheless, she found herself in want of a gown. Why Arya hated them, she would never know. 

Sansa frowned down at her little sister. The youngest Stark had traded out her recent uniform of drab dresses for a more familiar set of training clothes. 

“Is this wise?” Sansa asked. 

“I need to be noticed,” she replied simply. 

Sansa shrugged and peered down into chest of weapons that Arya had brought. There was no doubt it would be twice as heavy when they left. She, Robb and Arya agreed what needed to be done as a family but trusted their sister to make her own plans. Robb was to charm everyone- except for Littlefinger, apparently- and Sansa was to shuffle their pieces across the board. The Dornish were nearly in place. 

The trunk slammed close. Sansa jolted upright to find Robb with a maniacal grin. 

“Nope,” he said gleefully and motioned at the rack of blunted swords provided by the king. 

“Really? Whatever for?”

“You won’t always have your own blades to fight with. You need to learn to fight with what’s available. Go pick one.”

“You’re using your own.”

“I’m also much better and more practiced than you.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “You’re in a very good mood.”

“He fucked the princess,” Arya said nonchalantly, shoving past their brother to dig in the chest.

“Robb!” Sansa cried. 

He blushed, but did not back down. “How is it any different from you and your wildling prince?”

Sansa felt her own face heating. “Because we’re not meeting while we’re in the capital.”

“Everyone’s fucking everyone,” Arya shrugged. “Even Pycelle.”

“How do you know that?” 

The Red Viper appeared, glaring down at Arya with something between suspicion and curiosity. Sansa decided this was an argument she’d rather not suffer through and instead went to choose a sword. They were all larger and far more unbalanced than she was accustomed to. Thankfully, most had brought their own so there were quite a few to choose from. She decided on one with a smaller hilt. It was too long for her liking, but better that than a bad grip. 

“There’s a sight I never thought to see.”

Sansa spun, her hand tight around her new blade. A man with a fierce demeanor and grey hair peered down at her. His clothes were dark and nondescript except for a small trout pinned to his jerkin. He was accompanied by a tall young lord with startling familiar eyes. 

“Uncle Brynden?” She asked, almost shyly. 

“Aye. You’ll be Sansa. You look just like your mother.”

“I had not thought to see any of my mother’s kin. Uncle Edmure wrote that my grandfather’s health was not up to the trip and he was needed to help with his duties.”

The Blackfish shrugged. “Thought I’d come down with the Vale and represent our family. I was curious, anyway. I’ve heard many rumors...”

He trailed off to stare over her shoulder at the odd assortment of warriors gathered. Some of them were already sparring. It was hard to overlook a Dornish woman and a Winterfell guard struggling to hold their ground against Smalljon. Pride and affection warmed her chest. 

“It has been too long since I’ve seen an Umber,” a quiet, kind voice said. 

“Ah, Sansa this is-“

“Domeric Bolton,” she answered. 

Bolton bowed gracefully. “Lady Sansa. Let me apologize on behalf-“

Sansa raised a hand to stop him. “Please. I won’t judge you for you brother if you don’t judge me for mine.” She cast a long suffering glance at Robb. “Come, my lords. Arya would love to meet her infamous uncle.”

Said uncle had the tact to let Sansa and the Bolton heir walk on their own, though he remained close by. Their arrival was unexpected. Totally unexpected, but perhaps not unwelcome. It didn’t really affect any of their plans. Of course Domeric was still alive. His father would want to keep ties with the South given the new political climate. He must have wanted Ramsey, his spare, near with all of the strange happenings in the North. And of course they were all too preoccupied to even give a second thought to Domeric. Had they even specified when he had died to Father?

“Lady Sansa, I’m sorry if my appearance has disturbed you.”

“No, no, of course not. It could be a bit of relief.”

He cut a sharp glance at her. He was as pale as Jon with hair as dark and taller than either of her brothers. It was a mercy that he hardly resembled Ramsey, who was short and lean. 

Sansa did not mince her words. “This place is a poisonous cesspit and I doubt you are a stranger to harsh castles, Heir to the Dreadfort.”

The man nearly paused. 

“No,” he said slowly. “I am not.”

“Good.” In a quieter tone, she said, “Be aware that our new friends prefer blunt truths to flowery courtesies.”

“Of course not,” he said, still in that same careful voice. “Such things wilt under sun and ice.”

Arya had already attached herself to her uncle and had yet to notice the newcomer. When she did, she blinked several times and threw her head back in laughter. Several people stopped to stare. Lord Domeric‘s cool facade broke into a bit of alarm. It only worsened when Robb squeezed his shoulder like an old friend. 

“It’s always a relief to see northern blood in foreign places. Call me Robb.”

He practically dragged the Stark rival over to the Winterfell guards chatting and swinging swords with Prince Oberyn’s men. Arya followed with her uncle, splitting off to sit with Princess Arianne to observe. 

“Are you familiar with swordplay?”

Sansa sighed. “Not well, I’m afraid. Combat is more of a precaution than a passion for me.”

“My daughter Tyene is the same,” Oberyn said. “Yet she is no less dangerous than you are.” He regarded her with a speculative eye. “I have trained five daughters thus far. Would you like if I train you as well?”

“I would be honored, Your Grace,” she said honestly. 

“Call me Oberyn. There is no greater joy than hearing one’s name come from such a lovely mouth.”

Sansa fixed him with a blank stare. 

The irony of it was not lost on her: a famous warrior training a girl with no love for it. He was a surprisingly good teacher, far more patient than her siblings, and did not treat her with the same fragility as Ser Rodrik was want to. Her abdomen was burning with all of the twisting and a soreness built in her shoulders.

It wasn’t until Arya sauntered into the fray that she had any respite. Tor and an olive skinned man were stabbing at each other with spears. The Thenn gave strong thrusts and brutal swings. The Dornishman was lighter on his feet and quicker with his hands. It was an interesting show, even Sansa could see that. 

Arya bowed as she did before every spar. Tor grimaced and sidled to his previous opponent’s side. The man seemed confused, but accepted the silent truce all the same. 

Arya would always be small for her age. She would only gain a few more inches of height and her waist and hips would curve just a bit and she would grow no more. Still, she worked hard and ate well to keep her body, slight though it was, in the best shape it could be. Her body a weapon all on its own and that was saying nothing for the subtle, northern beauty she would grow into.

The Dornishman lunged first. Arya sidestepped it easily. Tor guessed where she would go but Arya’s spear was already there. She played with them like a cat would a mouse. The Dornish guard was on his back in less than a minute.Tor braced himself and struggled to keep up with Arya’s dance. She seemed to spin and twirl in the opposite direction of her weapon. It was not handled only like a spear, but like a staff that would be deadly without the steel tip. Tor landed in a puff of dry dirt. 

Sansa sneaked a peek at Oberyn. He was _frightened_. Sansa hesitated, unsure if speaking would worsen the situation. The two of them watched a skinny little girl use speed and cunning to throw grown men into the dirt. 

“There is something far darker at play than visions, Sansa Stark,” he said. She could hardly hear him over the clang of metal and shouts in the yard. “I do not like sorcery and I do not like liars.”

“It is not sorcery,” she protested, just as quietly.

“It is not visions.”

She contemplated her words before choosing to say, “It is for Robb.”

The scar on Robb’s neck was thin and clean, unlike the ones on his chest. Sansa didn’t like to think of those. She didn’t like to look at them if she didn’t have to. The image of Grey Wind’s head on his shoulders still had her retching in the middle of the night. 

Oberyn gave up on their farce of observation. She did not shrink back from his glare. The morning exercise had left his bronze skin dewy with sweat and a delectable masculine scent came from him. He was alluring, magnetic. There was something about him, perhaps the warm glances he sent his paramour or the passion in his eyes, that made it difficult to distrust him. Oberyn Martell was indeed the most dangerous man she had ever met.

“I am a master of the spear. It took me _years_. _Years_ of practice and honing my body, my instincts. _Years_ that your sister, that scrawny-“ 

Sigorn Thenn appeared, bare chested and all of his tattoos on display. He might have been as sculpted as a marble depiction of the Warrior if he wasn’t so malnourished. Once, in their dark tent with the voices of their drunken friends ringing through the night, Sansa had settled herself in his lap. She’d traced the markings that trailed from his scalp to his ribs and asked what they meant. It was a story, he’d said. A story that was not meant for warm summer nights. 

“Viper,” he said coolly.

Oberyn clenched his jaw and edged closer to the Thenn. Sigorn disregarded the obvious aggression. He continued to speak in that calm way of his, a way that no one expected from a tall, handsome wildling. She liked it sometimes, but other times she found herself wanting something else. Someone else. Someone perhaps not so quiet and cautious. Sigorn was who she needed now, but not who she wanted for the long term. There was a distinct possibility that she might not want anyone for the long term. 

“Do you believe in the Old Gods, Oberyn Martell?”

The prince ground his teeth together. “I follow the Seven.”

“I didn’t ask if you worship them. I asked if you believed in them.”

“I couldn’t say. I have never-“

“Then how could you say if you believe Sansa?”

Oberyn cursed darkly. 

“I liked you better as a dumb brute you pretend to be,” the prince said. 

A sneer was his only answer. She expected the prince to stomp off like a petulant child, but 

“How did you know?” Sansa asked. 

Sigorn shrugged. “You know as well as me that half of ruling is watching. It was one of my da’s first teachings.”

“Would he have taught you the same if you were a daughter?”

His brows furrowed in confusion. The alternative would not have occurred to him. “Yes.” 

Sansa nodded and turned back to the fray. Arya was nowhere to be found. 

* * *

The ball was grand. Hundreds of people were gathered in the Maidenvault ballroom, the one that still had dragons in the rafters. The king was too drunk to care. He spun his pretty little bride around the room until he grew out of breath and collapsed into an ornate chair to watch his court. 

Sansa wondered what Robert Baratheon saw. The ball was far more colorful than the previous day’s luncheon. The rainbow of silks and ribbons managed to overpower the black and green decor. Did it remind him of a battlefield? The people swirling wildly above red rose petals like men fighting on bloody floors? Did it make him think of all the balls he had attended before? Did it make him think of Harrenhal? Or perhaps soiling his brother’s marital bed at his wedding so long ago? 

“You did not strike me as the type to moon over our king,” a voice said. 

Sansa ended her reverie with a curtsy. Willas Tyrell stood before her, resplendent with his thick, brown beard and embroidered tunic. He used the same ornate cane he had in the throne room.

“What type do I strike you as, Lord Willas?”

He did not hide the appreciative glance he gave her lean frame. Sansa dressed for her role with simple elegance. An snarling direwolf ran from the shoulder to hip of a tight satin gown. The fabric and beads caught the light with every movement. No one could look away and as much as she hated it, she knew it was necessary. 

“The smart type,” he said.

She looked back out at the dancing crowd. It was exhausting to pretend to care about any of it. Home was calling her; the thought of dark walls and snowy grounds were the only things to keep her sane. Only four days had passed in the capital and the keep was already pressing in. The ceilings grew shorter and the halls narrowed with every step. 

“I would say your grandmother disagrees,” she noted. 

He did not flinch. 

“Grandmother disagrees with everything and everyone. It is her only joy in life and I do not have the heart to take it from such a sweet old woman.”

Sansa faked a smile. She was not in the mood to jest, but she could not cower from this conversation. Nor the one it would ultimately lead to. 

“I wish I could ask you to dance, my lady.”

“I do not,” she said bluntly. “I am tired and sore from training and exploring the castle so soon after traveling. I would much rather sit and talk but apparently we nobles are too important for chairs.”

His mouth twitched. “I always did wonder about that. The throne is already monstrous enough to garner the appropriate attention. Why not provide seating for the court?”

“Better yet, why not have the court provide seating for themselves? It would be a grand game to see how ridiculous an armchair could be.”

A companionable silence settled over them. It might not have been so bad to have been married to him before. He was handsome, smart, and not unkind. Yet Sansa did not waste her second life on a man that was only handsome, smart and not unkind. The millions of bushels is grain and tens of thousands of soldiers did prove tempting though. 

“Grandmother regrets her unkind words,” Lord Willas finally said. So this was the crux of it. His grandmother had sent him with a message. “She loathes being wrong, but she is not too proud to admit when she is. We would be honored to have you for lunch.”

Sansa nodded. “Of course.”

“I will ensure it is a late one.”

Her answering smile was the first genuine one of the night. 

“Hello, sister,” Arya said, seeming to materialize out of thin air. There was not even a group near enough for her to hide in. 

She glanced at Willas suspiciously. He merely bowed as much as he was able. 

“Hello, Arya,” Sansa said warmly. “Who has had the misfortune of dancing with you?”

She scowled. “More boys than I’d like. I thought you were the pretty one.”

Arya was well aware she would grow to be very pretty and Sansa was well aware her sister had disappeared once their arrival was announced nigh on an hour before. 

“You are cruel, Lady Sansa,” the lord said. “One as graceful in dueling as your sister must be a fantastic dancer.”

“It’s her manners I’m more concerned with.”

“How is it that you became so skillful, Lady Arya?” He pressed. 

Arya shrugged. “Natural talent. Father said Aunt Lyanna was the same, just that her father never let her do anything.”

“Hmm. Would you accompany me ladies?” Lord Willas asked. “The high table is terribly boring and you would make it very interesting.”

The sisters shared a silent conversation, shrugged, and walked on either side of their new acquaintance. He was taller than she’d realized. Much taller than Robb, perhaps as tall as Siggy.

“You should put a blade in that,” Arya said. 

Lord Willas raised a dark brow. “Pardon?”

“Put a blade in your walking stick.”

Sansa did not know the man well enough to name the new spark in his eye, but she knew Lady Olenna well enough to recognize the condescending tone he spoke with. 

“Sweet girl, the Red Viper is one of my closest friends. Why ever would you think I do not have at least half as many blades on my person as you have hiding in that conspicuously dull dress of yours?”

Sansa laughed. And laughed. And laughed. It had been far too long since anyone had managed to get under Arya’s skin. She was incensed, probably far more at herself than the Tyrell, but it was good to see a rare glimpse of the petulant Arya Underfoot of old. 

The soon to be Queen stood as they climbed the small dais. Her dress was a gold gown littered with real roses painted black and green. Massive emeralds weighed down her small frame. Margaery looked like Sansa thought a Queen should when she was a naive girl that still believed in songs. Now, she remembered Danaerys climbing Drogon in a short eastern dress, Gilly with ink stained hands, Brienne in her dented armor, Dacey in Father’s tunic and Lady Catelyn Stark with a simple braid and her simple dresses. 

“I have never seen you laugh. You are the most enchanting woman I have ever met Lady Sansa,” Margaery said. 

“Good to see you aren’t completely ice, Stark,” the king slurred. His blue eyes were rimmed red. Sansa pitied whoever was tasked with carrying him to his rooms. 

“Your Grace!” Margaery chastised gently. She placed her hand on his massive shoulder in an affectionate reprimand. The mummery was so subtle, so masterful. If Cersei hadn’t gone mad and committed mass murder, Margaery might have won, at least until Danaery had arrived. That would have been interesting to watch, to say the least. 

Robert snorted. A bit of foam in his beard danced. A morbid fascination, one that only came from growing up with a brood of brothers, almost endeared the drunken king to her. Almost. It was difficult to care for a man that slaughtered babes. 

“It’s quite alright,” Sansa lied. “Our king’s blunt words are a fresh respite.”

The king grunted. “Then maybe I should marry you to Stannis. He seems to like redheads enough.”

Sansa followed his line of sight. The Lord of Dragonstone stood on the fray of the crowd speaking with Lady Melisandre and a Florent noble. The witch’s red eyes rose at the attention, smirking at the group watching her. Stannis noticed the attention as well and nodded at his brother. To the horror of their little group, the king waved his brother over. 

The Starks and Tyrells shared a brief glance of camaraderie. They would declare a truce for the likes of Melisandre. 

Sansa had never met Stannis. The man moved with a grace that belied his dull looks. He had no joy in his eyes, but neither did he carry the taint of madness yet. The muscles in Stannis’ neck flexed and his eyes darted down to the woman at his side when one of the sheep of court scattered at the scent of her threat. Sansa did not know if it was distaste for the celebration or the cowardice of his brother’s sycophants. 

The Lord of Dragonstone bowed to his brother. Melisandre curtsied. The thin, red gown showed more cleavage than even Ellaria Sand displayed, a fact that was not lost on the King.

“Brother,” Stannis said simply.

“Good to see you back from Dragonstone. Who’s this?” 

The younger Baratheon’s tension was only evident in his white knuckles and tensed jaw. Sansa could practically hear his teeth grinding.

“I am Melisandre of Asshai, Red Priestess to R’hllor.” 

“Ah, you know Thoros? Good man, that. Can drink me under the table.”

Melisandre smiled thinly. “I fear Thoros of Myr has strayed from the path of light.”

Robert boomed with laughter. “Oh, aye,” he said, wiping a tear, “off the path and right into the arms of-“

“My wedding celebrations have become so interesting,” Margaery cut in with a sweet smile. _She is not_ not _wrong_ , Sansa thought. “There are more gods appearing in King’s Landing every day. Have you met the Ladies Stark? They have come sharing visions from the Old Gods in the North.”

Neither the sisters nor the Red Priestess bothered to hide their aversion to the other. The old woman’s eyes lingered on Sansa’s arms while Sansa smirked at the ruby nestled in her throat. Everyone surrounding the two women unabashedly edged forward to eavesdrop.  There was a commotion and Sansa knew that Jon must have been holding her brother back from barreling through the crowd. 

Sansa laced sweet venom into her words. “They call me the Red Witch back home. I’ll have to get them to choose another moniker, lest I be confused with you.”

The priestess raised a red brow. “It is not I who worship false gods.”

“Mm,” Sansa said. “What are we but _slaves_ to our beliefs?”

Her eyes widened for the briefest moment. It was enough for the shrewd Margaery Tyrell and her sharp brother to notice.  Sansa curtsied to the King and his bride, hoping to make an escape. Red flashed, followed by a slap of skin, and a gasp. Melisandre had Arya’s chin in her hand. Arya had one hand on the wrist and a blade against her ribs. The priestess paid the blade no mind.

“Darkness resides in you,” she murmured as if in a trance. “Your soul. It does not belong here, to you. Your face. It does not- Blood. Blood and death. It clings to you. You have killed this night.”

Stannis and a guard had closed in on the women. Willas tried to step around Sansa. His grip on the cane was peculiar as if he was readying to wield it with two hands. She outmaneuvered him easily enough. 

“ENOUGH!” The King roared. 

Everyone stilled. Most turned to their fat, drunken liege, but Sansa did not look away from the priestess. 

“No child of Ned Stark will be harmed while I still live. Take your red witch and her fire god and go, Stannis. I do not want to see her again.”

None of them had the gall to point out that it was Ned Stark’s child with a blade to another’s ribs, not the other way around. Stannis, teeth grinding harder than before, did not bother bowing as he took Melisandre’s arm in a tight grip. The onlookers whispered to one another as she was forcibly led out of the room. 

“Seven hells Lyanna. Are you alright?”

Sansa’s heart stopped. Even Ser Barristan startled in his statuesque position. The king was squinting at Arya with concern, red-faced and panting from the sudden exertion. Arya, for the second time that night, was at a loss for words. 

Sansa did not break eye contact with Margaery as she spoke, willing her to understand the subtext of her words. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace. The night has suddenly taken a turn and it is best that we retire.”

Robert grunted, brows furrowing into his cup. A shiver ran down Sansa’s spine at the thought of such a mindless king. The Tyrells were corrupt, yes, but perhaps they were better than whatever this shell of a man was.She looked away from him, to Margaery, who pasted on a winning smile. 

“Of course, Lady Sansa. We understand.”

Sansa nodded in gratitude. Margaery understood. She was in a rage, but she did not fault the sisters. They left as quickly as propriety allowed, wishing all of their acquaintances a good night as they strolled through the crowed. Perhaps the King’s words were for the best. Margaery would not want them to linger in the capital. They would get to go home. Sansa let the thought warm her as they made their way through the castle.

 

 

 

The next morning, Grandmaester Pycelle was found stabbed to death in his office. A chest lay near the stiff corpse. Inside were several hundred gold dragons and a bundle of correspondence bearing what several men would identify as Tywin Lannister’s handwriting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ODAIJAODIGJOPHGQEROGIPQEPROGIH OVER A THOUSAND KUDOS WHAT IS THIS ALSDKJGASODGIJAPSODJADADGFADG


	19. A maze of decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I combined chapters 19-21. :)

Varys watched Renly Baratheon watch his brothers. He too was in bed with the Tyrells, though that was a genuine relationship that had been going on for years and would continue for many more years. It was no less inconvenient for Varys. The Tyrells had, of course, used that love to their advantage. That in itself would not have been too terrible if their ambition stopped somewhere. Anywhere. There were too many Reachmen in power and the rest of the realm would not- and should not- accept it.

“It was the Stark girl, I tell you!” Stannis argued.

Pycelle’s body was discovered at first light. It had taken another hour for the king to be roused. Another half hour for everyone to be gathered into his solar. The grandmaester was not mourned by any. It was, however, unsettling to have a council member murdered and his corruptions revealed under their very noses. It was a dangerous time in the capital. Interesting, but dangerous.

“She’s a little girl! A child can not kill a grown man,” Robert said.

“That doesn’t stop you from fearing-,” Stannis countered.

“Why in seven hells do you think it was the Stark girl?” Renly cut in, eager to avoid another argument about Danaerys Targaryen. A small mercy.

“The Lady Melisandre-“

“Oh not your red whore again,” Robert cried.

“She is not my-“

“Do you fuck her?” The king asked.

Stannis flushed as red as his witch. Robert made a dismissive gesture and threw back another goblet of wine.

“Does it matter who killed the old lecher? He was obviously a traitor and no one liked him,” Renly said.

Varys hummed in agreement. “Indeed.What’s done is done. We should concern ourselves with his replacement instead of his murderer.”

“The law must be upheld,” Stannis said, his lips nonexistent in cold rage.

Renly rolled his eyes. “Mother have mercy, not this again.”

“Crone’s cunt!” Robert cursed. “The man was a traitor and someone executed him for us. Let that be enough!”

“Haven’t your little birds heard anything Spider?” Stannis mocked.

“I have many little birds but they can only do so much when I am tasked to spy on everyone in the castle by everyone in the castle,” Varys explained sardonically. “In any case, Lord Baelish always had more information on Pycelle, given the man’s proclivity for women’s affection.”

Littlefinger, opportunistic vermin that he was, did not rise to the bait. He merely shrugged and said that his whores had not reported anything unusual. Odd. Very odd. Then again, what had not been odd in Westeros of late? Eddard Stark was settling wildlings into the north, Stannis had found a mistress and god, there was talk of the dead rising, and dragons were flying in the east. None of this sat well with Varys. Magic was unpredictable, uncontrollable. Worse even than mad and drunk kings.

The red witch and her fervor for her fire god truly scared him. Religion was always a powerful, meddlesome entity, but a faith like that? He fought back a shudder, locking away that terrible voice from so many years ago.

“Anything else? I need a nap,” Robert grumbled.

None of them did. Stannis least of all; he looked as though his jaw was going to break off. Robert nodded and waddled to escape his duties.

Renly broke the silence. “I could not investigate the Stark girl even if I suspected her. We can not accuse Ned Stark’s youngest daughter of assassinating the Grand Maester. Brother, surely you can see that.”

Stannis braced his hands on the chair and stared down at the table as if the grooves were spelling out answers. He looked up to meet each of their gazes.

“I respect Ned Stark, but she did it. I know she did it,” he said.

“They are very strange and I have seen many strange things,” Varys said.

Littlefinger finally spoke. “All I know is that we had a Queen when the King left for Winterfell and we no longer did when His Grace left for King’s Landing. They are involved somehow. Perhaps it was one of those vile savages they brought along.”

Varys wanted to roll his eyes. “The Free Folk, as they call themselves, are not interested in politics. They have spent much of the week ogling the city and its peoples.”

“‘They man who passes the sentence swings the sword’”, Ser Barristan said. They all looked at the old knight. The Lord Commander was the only man they all respected. His words were honest, if a bit too honorable, and his lack of ambition merited their undivided attention. The council did not always care for his opinion, but each of them listened and considered in their own way.

“It is the Stark way. They do not use executioners. It is unlikely they use assassins either.”

“Perhaps, but children are not their fathers,” Stannis countered.

“The Free Folk follow strength,” Varys remembered. ”Whether it is their odd ways or blunt effectiveness, the Starks have done something to prove their strength to their guests.”

“The Starks aren’t worried about respect. They’re worried about soldiers to keep Tywin Lannister at bay,” Littlefinger said.

“Or the dead,” Renly laughed.

Varys and Stannis did not join in their amusement. Witches and wolves, dragons and tales, ice and fire. Something was off in the world. Something was wrong. _Illyrio must hear of this_ , Varys thought to himself. _The game has changed_.

* * *

Robb walked as quickly as he dared through the sunny halls of the Keep. Oberyn Martell had marched into the Stark’s solar with two favors: first, he would not kick Robb’s ass into the seventh hell for fucking his niece and second, Sansa was on her way to a meeting, alone, with the three Tyrells. 

‘ _Alone_ ,’ he’d repeated. Then he’d declared the Starks in his debt and cheerfully strolled out of the room.

Robb did not waste any time. Arya was nowhere to be found, of course, and he was not well versed in the political double speak of the Reach. So, he formulated another plan, a plan his eldest sister would not condone, but a plan nonetheless. Robb was ambushing the Tyrells with the rowdiest northmen he could find.

The Smalljon was playing cards in a small, bright courtyard. He tagged along easily. Robb had already decided to drag Kai along when the Thenns rounded the corner. The gods were on his side for once in his sorry life.  

Robb shot a wolfish grin at Tor. “You wanna terrorize some southern ladies?”

The wildling chewed it over. “Maybe. Which ones?”

“The Queen. They think they’ve got Sansa cornered.”

Sigorn tilted his head. “I’ll go.”

He nodded and began to lead the way, cringing inwardly all the time. His place with Sigorn was awkward. Brothers were supposed to say something. He should defend his sister’s honor, warn him of the consequences of betrayal. Robb was not an idiot. Since they had begun their....dalliance, for want of a better word, Sansa’s shoulders were no longer up to her ears. Amusement crinkled her eyes and she made more of her dry remarks. It was subtle and slow going, but it was a marked improvement. 

There was also the issue of their alliance. In a way, he and Sigorn were of equal standing. They were both heirs to respected leaders. Relations with the Free Folk were going so well that Robb did not want to jeopardize it. But it was Sansa. He had failed her once. 

He was so lost in his internal debate that he did not notice the curtain of auburn hair until Smalljon called out to Sansa. His sister froze, spun, and frowned. It transformed into a small smile at the sight of them. She shook her head affectionately.

What are you doing here?!” She asked when they grew near.

“Yes, sorry we’re late,” Robb said loudly. “Wanted to look our best, you know.”

“You know it’s highly unconventional for young lords to attend the ladies’ court,” she said. 

“I can darn socks with the best of them,” Umber boasted. 

“I know braids,” the Thenn offered. 

Sansa looked up at Robb expectantly. He shrugged. 

They arrived at the ornate doors before she could curse him to the seventh hell. The Tyrell guard slammed his spear without meeting their gaze. Almost immediately, the doors swung in. A nirvana lay beyond: beautiful ladies walking in beautiful dresses among beautiful greenery. The birds were chirping and a minstrel was playing harp somewhere amongst all the flowers. It was a clever ruse, though nowhere good enough to mask the scent of rot and decay beneath it all. 

A boy with hair prettier than Jon Snow’s led them through the vibrant maze to a pale alcove that looked over the sea. A withered old woman and her pretty granddaughter were seated, but a handsome man leaning on an even more handsome cane waited just outside of the pale stones. Willas Tyrell, to his credit, did not react to the new guests. He merely gestured for three more chairs and bowed low. The fucking lying bastards, trying to overpower his sister.

Cowards.

Robb certainly owed Oberyn Martell. There was no doubt about that.

* * *

Sansa sat between Sigorn and Robb, directly across from Olenna. It made her uncomfortable. She was good, yes, but not good enough to spar with the Queen of Thorns herself. Nevertheless, she was a Stark of Winterfell. She did not let her nerves show. Instead, she remembered the Long Night. She remembered how dark the days were, how the children did not know the taste of anything but dried horse meat and frozen onions, how her stomach would cramp with emptiness at night. The Tyrells could help prevent that, or soothe the sting at least. 

“If I had known to expect so many, I would have prepared the dining solar,” Olenna said briskly. 

“Surely you can’t expect to propose marriage without me present,” Robb snapped

Olenna snorted. “I expect to propose marriage with the one who controls the board. It’s admirable to want to protect your sister, but I’m afraid you’ll just get in the way.” 

She shot an exasperated look at Sansa. “Men. Utterly useless, bless their noble hearts.”

“Thanks, Grandmama,” Willas said over his cup of wine. 

“Tell me boy, are men just as useless beyond the wall?” Olenna shot at the Thenn. 

Sigorn shrugged. “A fool is a fool, no matter what’s between their legs.”

She harrumphed. “We call you savages but you have more sense than most of us. Or more mettle, more like. Your egos are not so fragile as to have to lord over women.”

“No,” he disagreed. “We are free. We did not learn to rule our women because we were never ruled over.”

“Yet here you are, having tea with the future queen of the seven kingdoms,” Olenna said. 

“She is not my queen.”

Sansa wanted to leap off the stone balcony and into the rocky sea. Margaery, thank the gods, did not take offense. She silenced whatever retort was on her grandmother’s lips and smiled warmly. 

“I do not intend to interfere with any agreement you have reached with my betrothed. This meeting is nothing more than an opportunity for us to learn more of one another.”

“And you needed your brother here for it?” Robb asked sardonically. 

“No offense Lady Tyrell, but there’s not much more to learn about you,” Smalljon offered. 

Margaery’s smile became pained. Her patience was waning. There was nothing she could call Smalljon that would strike him to the core, no secrets to hold against him. With Cersei, in the time before, her sins were innumerable and she had too much to lose. The Umbers were content with the Last Hearth. They would certainly not turn down a Stark marriage or a prosperous trade deal, but they did not want something so desperately to entangle themselves in the Tyrell’s poisonous web. 

“Is that so?” Olenna said, her knuckles turning white from her grip on the armrest. 

“It is.” Sigorn surprised them all with his calm answer. He did not balk from the cutting looks. “You’re smart enough and good with people. You’re not as fragile as you look. You wouldn’t break easily. I can respect you for that, but I would never kneel to you. You’re too greedy.”

He took the appalled silence as a cue to go on. Sansa dug her nails into his thigh. He shook her off. The unspoken accusation sounded in her head: you have no say in what I do unless I kneel. 

“I’ve seen the way you look at Val. At the Umber. At the Red Wolves. You want them. You want them all. You want power. You want fame. You want. What if you get it all? What will you want them? You are an empty shell of a woman and it will only get worse.”

The Smalljon traded snickers with Robb. Sansa peered off, past the lady’s headdress and onto the horizon. If only she could fly, lift her arms and float across along that peaceful turquoise sea to her frozen home. She wanted home. She wanted Jon. She wanted Father. Want, want, want. 

“What of my wants?” She asked softly, before all seven hells could break lose. The tension slacked, just the slightest bit. “What of my wants, Sigorn of Thenn, Son of the Frostfangs, Savior of the Shadow? What of my wants? I do not want fame or power. I want to smell the corpses of my enemies burn and feel the cold winds of winter sting my face. I want-....I want to watch my rapist’s dogs tear the meat from his cheek again. I want to watch his pink guts slide out to melt the snow once more. I want blood. Does that make me an empty shell of a woman?”

The laughter and music seemed inappropriate. Blasphemous even in the cold silence. Slowly, she turned to meet his steady gaze. She heard Robb fidget, felt the eyes of the roses. An eternity seemed to pass before he looked away, but not until she saw a flinch of disappointment. He was not a wolf. He did not long for the hunt, did not place the pack before all else. 

“I do not care for your games,” she told the Tyrells. Willas looked as though he was about to throw up on his plate. The beautiful, mysterious lady was gone and feral woman stood in her place. “I want your grain and your men, but I’ll settle for the food. You’ll need timber and furs in three years time. This has been the longest summer on record. If you don’t believe our warnings, believe that at least. Iron, too, for your wars if the Westerlands aren’t brought to heel.”

“Wars?” Olenna finally managed. “I though you needed Stannis’ obsidian for the dead.”

Sansa stood to leave as she spoke. “You’re a fool if you think Tywin Lannister will not try to rewrite the annals of history. The Martells have never forgotten Elia of Dorne, the Iron Bank is owed a debt, and there are Targaryens in exile who will foam at the mouth for Baratheon blood. All while magic has returned to our world.”

“I suggest diplomacy,” her brother said as his chair scraped against the stone. A wicked smile curved his lips. “Winter is coming. Us Starks must prepare for it. We’ll not have time to come win your wars for you.”

Olenna shoved to her feet, her grandson eyeing her with worry. 

“And if I refuse? If I name you traitor to the crown? Leave you to your fabled dead?” 

Sansa raised a brow. “It would be your downfall. The small folk would name you traitor, the lords would name you cowards. They would rebel and demand justice.”

“If they asked for help, I’d give it,” Smalljon declared. “Me and the Greatjon and the Whoresbane and Crowfoot would gladly give it. 

“I’ll not speak for my house, but I can say that I would join the march under any name,” Robb boasted.

Sigorn rose lazily. He eyed them all with distaste. “Have you seen an angry Thenn? The Free Folk fear us, but we fear the Starks. Have you seen an angry Stark?” 

With that, he drowned Willas’ wine and stalked off. The Starks and Jon at least offered polite bows and nods before they followed. Sansa waited until they were back in their cheery suite to round on their guest.

“You have grievously fucked this up,” she snarled.  

Two dark haired women shifted in her peripheral vision. Jeyne and Alys, she remembered. Robb’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword. 

“I am not-“

“I do not care for your pride or your independence. I care about food and you just insulted the ones who can give it to us.”

“You are too reliant on their southern ways,” he spat. 

Lady’s vision blurred with her own. Trees and fur and blood plastered themselves over the red walls of the keep. 

“Have you watched a babe die? Have you had a woman beg you to grant her babe mercy? Have you watched it’s thin little legs stop kicking, watch a dragon rider look away in fear? Have you heard the wail of a mother or the thud of her body hit the snow? She could not live with her choice, but she could not let her little son starve to death. Have you seen a child light up with the promise of a third meal for the week? Have you Sigorn? Have you? Because you will and I will lay the blame on you every time.”

Sigorn reddened with fury. He stepped forward, bent his head down, and then he was gone. Robb had thrown him halfway across the room.

“Enough,” he roared, ears as bright as his hair. “Out! Everyone out!”

The few people left scurried away. Smalljon manhandled Siggy out after the girls. 

“Not you, Jon,” Sansa said. Her voice scratched at her throat. She had yelled, she realized. It had been a long time since she had raised her voice. “You’re family.”

She collapsed onto the sofa beside her brother. He gathered her up in his arms. She stilled a bit at the intimacy. Not an hour ago she was thinking of her father’s calming embraces, of Jon’s warm kisses to her crown. Why should Robb be any different? 

“Unless you want to leave. Can’t say I’d blame you.”

Smalljon snorted as he lowered himself onto the velvet chaise. It looked like a piece to a dollhouse under his massive frame. 

“I wish I could leave all the way back to Winterfell,” he grumbled at the ceiling. 

“Winterhell, where winter is hell, Arianne said,” Robb chuckled. 

Where winter fell, she thought fondly. 

Sansa moved so fast that she knocked her head against Robb’s chin. 

“Seven bleeding hells,” she whispered.

Robb massaged his jaw as she rummaged amongst the tables. She found an old pamphlet describing the fashions of the ball and ripped out the first page with a blank side. She scribbled down a single sentence with such fervor that she nearly ripped the parchment. 

_  Winter. Fell.  _

_ Search the crypts.  _

_ -S _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your support!!!!!! Your comments and kudos make my day. When I get the email, people ask me who I’m taking to because it puts such a smile on my face.
> 
> \--------------
> 
>  
> 
> *****HINTS OF THE PLOT BELOW***** (warning if you’re like me and don’t want any hints of a spoiler)  
>    
> There seems to be some worry in the comments about ships. The tags are endgame (except for Sig and Sans but you already know that), it’s just that Sansa has not healed to the point of thinking she will ever love a man. That’s all I can say without spoiling something major. 🙂🤐  
> Arya is absolutely up to something, but I’m waiting for a big reveal. She is not just biding her time and spying.  
> Nobody has said anything about the previous chapter, but Varys will have a role to play and I didn’t want it to seem to come out of nowhere. Plus, it was fun to get into his head.  
> Also, this fic is Sansa-centric. I identify with her the most and so she is who I write. Most of the other people will be background. Even if they have a POV, it’s really just to push Sansa’s story forward.


	20. Chilled Blood

The youngest Stark girl was nowhere to be seen. Again.

Even her handsome uncle could not tempt her out of the shadows. They were all so damn good looking. It should have been expected, what with their high breeding and all. Important men did not have ugly wives. Still, even the ugly northern men held a gruff attractiveness that drew the eye. Ellaria claimed it was a passing fancy, that they would satisfy their cravings and return to smooth faces and soft hands. Oberyn sincerely hoped she was right. He did not wish to stay in the North very long. Certainly not after spending so much of his time in the presence of Baratheons. He thanked the old gods, the new, the drowned one, the rhoynish goddesses, every fucking god he could think of that the wedding was only in two more days.

The King leered down at them all from his monstrous throne. Oberyn couldn’t help but wonder if he had trouble pissing with a belly that big. Could he have seen the butchered babes under- No. He must not think of that.

A slender, dark haired man sidled through the crowd and Oberyn lunged like the snake they named him for. He dug his fingers in like fangs. This was a rat he could play with.

“Littlefucker,” he purred down in the man’s ear.

Petyr Baelish’s infuriating smirk did not disappear.

“I must confess that I prefer that epithet out of the Hound’s mouth. Something more satisfying about it,” he drawled.

Oberyn laughed humorously. “You’re such a clever man. So witty.”

“We all have our weapons Prince Oberyn.”

“Yes, yours is just smaller than most.”

“That’s disappointing.” Baelish relaxed, almost leaned in to Oberyn. “A man as smart as you can do better than that.”

“Can you? I can do whatever I like. I can do whomever I like.” He made sure to cast a glance at Sansa’s profile. She’d dressed in the same gown she had made that dramatic arrival in. The swell of her breasts were tantalizing even from afar. “I am a Prince of Dorne, my choices are infinite. But you? When does the ladder topple? How high can you climb before your fancy leather boots slip on a rung?”

“Even the humblest pieces can have-“

“You are anything but humble.”

“Perhaps-“

“SETTLE DOWN YOU SHITS!” Robert thundered from the throne.

The soldier in Oberyn dropped the rat. He could not deny that Robert Baratheon was made for the battlefield. That voice, that sheer mass, the presence. If Oberyn was a forgiving man, he might say that it was unkind of the gods not to immortalize the fat king on the battlefield, that the Demon of the Trident should have never left the Trident. Oberyn was not a forgiving man. He was not only a soldier. He was a prince, a father, a brother. He could not forgive the crimes against his family, against Dornish children. 

No, he chastised himself. Not now. Not here.

“MEN FROM THE NIGHT’S WATCH HAVE COME TO SPEAK. YOU WILL LISTEN AND PAY THEM THE RESPECT THEY DESERVE.”

Oberyn made his way to his niece at the front of the crowd. The small council and the great houses arranged themselves in a half moon around the Throne. He shared nods with his unlikely new friends across the way.

The Starks had joined the Martells in their exile from court after the disaster with the Tyrells. Poor form from all parties involved, in his opinion, but oh how he had wished to see the wolf bare its fangs. He had a taste. An idea. It was nothing on witnessing the kill.

One particularly hot day, Sansa had complained about missing so many healing lessons with the maester, so Oberyn offered his tutelage. What began as a lesson on basic potion making turned into a thorough education on poisons.

He’d held a glass box of white powder in his hands. Her eyes glittered with dark fantasies. It was frightening and comforting to find someone as feral as himself.

“And this is strychnine, named after the Strychnos tree, from which it comes,” he explained. “Yellow nuts are cracked and ground into the powder you see here. It can be inhaled, but digestion is most effective. It prolongs the symptoms.”

His lips pulled into an almost wistful smile.

“The poison affects the brain. The victim will first display signs of mental distress: restlessness, twitching, and the like. Soon, they have difficulty breathing, which amplifies into lockjaw and then frothing at the mouth. Then, my gentle lady, the attacks begin.”

Her smile was small but it matched the storms Oberyn felt in his chest.

“I have spent many a day imagining Lord Tywin in one of these fits. His green eyes would bulge and protrude, his skin slowly turning blue, the fear and distress as he struggles to breathe.”

Sansa frowned. “That sounds like the Strangler.”

That was an unexpected remark. She was either much too clever and remembered a lesson from her maester or she had experience with the Strangler. He couldn’t decide which was more likely. Or unsettling.

“Ah, you see, the beauty of the strychnine is that it does not constrict the airway; it weakens the muscles of the chest and the functioning of the brain. Therefore, it takes a much longer time for the symptoms to appear and death to occur. When ingested, the process may take over an hour.”

“I see. May I?”

“Do not open it,” he had cautioned.

She had held the box up to the light, blue eyes studying the salt-like powder. “It’s a shame that we were not friends sooner, Prince Oberyn. Alas, the man who deserved this most is already dead.”

Oberyn had glanced at the dog bite on her forearm. That was a story that he was most excited to hear when they left the capital.

“Oh, no,” she had said. “It was the man that sold me to him.

Looking at her now, with steel for a spine and scars caressing her full breasts, it was difficult to think of who could be so fearsome as to hold power over the young woman. Certainly not her family. She was much too loyal to them, the father and bastard brother especially. Oberyn was looking forward to meeting the one the Stark siblings referred to as the best of them and Val described as the prettiest man she’d ever seen.

Suddenly Robert, to the surprise of all, abandoned his seat on the throne and lumbered his wide girth down the steps. He was close enough to see the blue veins under the splotchy skin. Close enough to kill. Close enough to bleed.

The groaning hinges of the side door interrupted his ruminations. Oberyn remembered Benjen Stark as a gangly youth inseparable from his sister. Strange, not to think of Lyanna with hate in his heart. Though if the Starks were any indication, it was obvious that the girl had not been stolen. Or were Sansa’s scars proof that even she-wolves could be caged? Nonetheless, the Young Wolf was not so young anymore. He was a handsome, bearded man that wore black well. Shame about the celibacy vows.

Two of his sworn brothers, one less groomed than the Free Folk and the other with the pomp of nobility followed behind him. Then came the Smalljon with a coffin sized chest chained to his back. The one they called the Spiderslayer followed with his Thenn prince-that-was-not-a-prince. Altogether, there was more body hair on the group of men than all of Sunspear put together.

The slam of the chest on the marble dais echoed throughout the throne room. And kept echoing. Metallic dings and clanks sounded as whatever was inside rattled its prison.

“Lords and Ladies of the court,” the Stark said. His voice was clear and loud despite the heavy northern accent. Whatever position he held was one of leadership. “I am First Ranger Benjen of the Night’s Watch, born to House Stark of Winterfell.”

His dark eyes scanned the crowd to ensure all were listening.

“There was always honor in joining the Night’s Watch. However, as all things do, the Watch has aged. It has forgotten. We have descended into a petty, everlasting conflict with the people beyond the Wall. We forgot the true enemy. “

He hesitated for a beat. The first sign of nerves.

“The Others have awoken. They have brought the dead with them.”

Without preamble, Tor the Spiderslayer brought his battle axe down on the chains. The box rocked menacingly. Fear spread with every breath the crowd shared, infecting each person. Even the ones who scoffed at the northerners and their tales. Another thud of the battle axe. Whispers washed over the room like waves. Another. The thing inside began beating back. Arianne gripped his forearm.

The chains collapsed to the floor in a clank that silenced the steady whispers. The men shared a single look before clearing a path. Heavy pounding bent at the lid. The wildling wedged his axe under the wooden and pushed.

A screech raised bumps on Oberyn’s arms. Never in all his years had he heard anything like it. Never had he seen anything like it. It was a man, only....dead. Dead with glowing blue eyes, skin peeling off the cheeks, and a macabre hole in its chest. It screeched with a rage that chilled blood.

A woman screamed and another. Some man shouted. The sound got its attention. Like a hound on a scent, it reared it’s head back to leer down at the crowd. Ari’s nails dug into his skin.

The big, golden man in the middle of it all was hard to miss. Even for a dead man. The Kingsguard immediately stepped forward, blades silently unsheathing and gleaming in the light from the stained glass.

Then it charged. It was not clumsy nor graceful. It was not fast nor slow. It was a man. A dead man, but still just a man with the capabilities of a man.

The battle axe came from nowhere. The Thenn lordling cut the corpse in half. No blood poured from the wound. No sound came from the creature. Oberyn was still staring at the bloodless floor when he realized it was still moving. Long, knobbly fingers pulled its torso, the flesh squeaking against the polished marble. It pulled and clawed until it finally hooked its hands around the first step. Benjen’s heavy black boot stomped on its neck.

It growled and squirmed to get at the fat golden morsel. A short, dark laugh escaped from Oberyn. No one noticed, thank the gods. It was just too good: Oberyn Martell sympathizing with a creature from the seventh hell.

“Only Valyrian steel and dragonglass end them.”

In demonstration, he held up a Valyrian dagger for them all to see and plunged it into the thing’s temple. It screeched, long and awful, and collapsed with a thud. Silence reigned.

“The Others raise the dead. Corpses are soldiers in their war against mankind. Kill the creator and the soldiers follow. But they’re fast. They’re graceful. And they’re smart.”

He takes a deep inhale that has Oberyn lifting his gaze to the ranger. That was the sound of man preparing himself to deliver a hard truth.

“My brother, Ned Stark of Winterfell, in the name of your king, arranged an alliance with the men beyond the wall. They could find safety in the south if they fought in the Long Night and returned after.”

Another deep breath. Oberyn tensed like a coiled viper, ready to grab his niece and flee to the furthest end of the world.

“The Others attacked. There are hundreds of thousands of Free Folk and only three castles manned on the Wall. We let the old and the women and the children through first. They knew. Guessed maybe. They attacked.”

Seven bleeding hells. That was why the Starks had sequestered themselves in their rooms. He glanced at them. They were stiff and grim and furious. He could imagine their direwolves pacing restlessly behind them.

“It was a massacre. Northmen of all our peoples: the Watch, the North, the Folk. Massacred in a blizzard. All to rise in death and peer at the Wall with glowing eyes.”

He peered out at the cowering faces once more.

“We need your help. Every able-bodied man and woman. The Watch can not do it on our own. The Wall will not stand forever. It was created with magic thousands of years ago and I do not doubt that magic can destroy it once more. The North cannot do it on our own. And when we fall, it will be your lands and your people destroyed by ice and death. All of man will be gone. So please, for the sake of your children, for the sake of their children, send your men, your women, your orphans. Send your weapons and your grain. For their sakes.”

Benjen Stark bent to pick up the corpse by its neck. He slung it into the chest while another black brother dropped the other half of the torso on top. The crowd watched, even the king rooted to the spot in fear and astonishment.

It was, of course, Sansa Stark that broke the spell. Her auburn hair was like a flame against the pale dress. She strode with grace to curtesy deeply before the king, holding it so low that Oberyn knew it must wear at her muscles.

“My King. It is with this news that I beg you to allow my brother and sister and I return home. We have much-“

“No,” Robert grunted. Sansa did not stumble, but her brother did. Oberyn did. Ari squeezed his arm again, this time in caution rather than fear. “No. You’ll stay for this wedding and then we’ll go. Together. With the realm at our backs.”

Sansa did not smother her relief and gratitude. Smart of her.

Oberyn took up the applause politely, surveying all the important faces around him. Baelish was shocked, yet still calculating. Varys, interestingly enough, was all fear. And Margaery Tyrell looked as though she had swallowed a lemon.

Still, he realized, the youngest Stark girl was nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone is dying next chapter......Who could it be?


	21. The snow is last, the worst.

Margaery’s dress was absolutely stunning. There would never be another like it. It was so thin it was sheer and fit her like a glove . Red, green and gold roses were painstakingly embroidered with gems and beads that glittered in the bright sept. The thorny vines were cleverly fashioned to resemble a stag’s antlers. A long, gauzy overskirt billowed out into a train from a golden belt that masked any indecency. It was daring, expensive, glamorous, and Sansa hated herself for liking it.

The wedding, the crowd, the sept, she could all do without. It was the clothes that did her in. Fashion was just another type of art. Margaery hadn’t made it to the alter and Sansa already had another thousand gowns like it planned: dove grey velvet with glittering snowflakes for herself, plain black silk with an ombre train like fire for Danaerys, and for Arya.....

Oh, the dresses she’d sketched for Arya. Her favorite was a simple column made of nothing but chainmail. Another was more casual; loose velvet cut in the Southern style with a belt of swords. The most daring was a revealing black gown with an overlay of silver daggers and white wolves. Not that it mattered. Arya would never wear them and there were more important things to fill Sansa’s journals: research cost of increasing linen imports from Essos, ask Oberyn aboutexpediting glass orders, write Father about crypts, inquire about giants assisting with infrastructure - remember to hire more sled dog trainers. 

The lists were endless. Time was a luxury they could not afford yet they were forced to endure a day of opulence and pageantry. How long would it take for Robert to gather his armies? How long would they dally in post-marital bliss while the North wept and bled?

The attack was devastating. A blizzard came first, one she knew all to well. It was a winter storm that had preceded the fall of Winterfell in her previous life. It began with clouds thick enough to black out the starless night and a cold that burned. Then, the winds howled and seemed to cut to the bone deeper than any blade. The snow is last. The worst. Thick and fierce, it blinds and stings and hinders movement so that her feet stumble as she runs through the ruins of her home. Shapes and figures grasp at her, but she cannot tell friend from foe in the storm, can not tell a dead screech from a dying cry. Sansa can only-

Fingers claw into her shoulder. “Sansa!”

She spins, pushes out against the hand trapping her and squeezes the handle of the heavy axe, preparing to lift it....but it is not there.

People were mulling about. It was not dark. It was bright and golden and statues of false gods studied them in their own way. The room was crowded with a low celebratory murmur, not cries for mothers and mercy.

Sansa couldn’t breathe. Every inhale took the effort of lifting a tree. It was too loud, too crowded, too everything.

Wordlessly, Robb gripped her hand and pushed his way through the crowd. They went out the heavy doors, took a sharp left to place where their father died, and slipped behind a column. Her brother shoved down on her shoulder.

“Sit,” he ordered.

He was using a King’s voice, the one she’d imagined him bellowing commands as he took the city. Strange how her siege fantasies never included the rivers of blood and mounds of bodies. What a fool she’d been.

Sansa didn’t argue. She was much too tired for that. She slid down the shadowed alcove and sat with her knees pulled to her chest, propriety be damned.

“Breathe in. Deeply. Good. Now exhale slowly.”

Eyes closed, she followed her brother’s instructions as they took slow, calming breaths. The clamor of the wedding crowd gradually faded instead of clashing against her ears. Best of all, her mind was no longer as tumultuous as a storm at sea. It was more like cold waves clawing at a stony shore.

“Thank you.”

He nodded gruffly and sat down beside her. From their shadowed step, they looked down at red shingled and straw thatched roofs all jumbled together like crooked teeth. They longed for the steep wooden roofed shops of Winter Town, the rolling green hills to the south and the Wolfswood to the east. They ached for home.

“How did you know what to do?” She asked after a while. “Did you remember?”

“No. Fits like that are taught as part of battlefield medicine. Didn’t you learn?”

“No. Mine is more surgery and alchemy, ailments for sicknesses and mending injuries. That sort of thing. And midwivery, but only because I asked.”

“Really? Whatever for?”

She shrugged. “It would be nice to welcome life into the world instead of fighting for it.”

“Hmm.” He grimaced at a rancorous explosion from the crowd. It was deafening. The people loved their party king and his pretty wife. Margaery was good for them, much better than Cersei. Much easier to displace than Cersei as well. The Tyrells weren’t stupid enough to resort to terrorism without a dragon.

“Have you decided anything on marriage? Children?” He asked tentatively.

“No. I trust Sigorn, oddly enough. I trust him more than anyone outside of our family since Davos. Or Tormund. Or Sandor, I suppose. And Brienne. And Podrick.”

She frowned. Perhaps she was not as cold hearted as she believed. Brienne had petitioned with Uncle Benjen, who’d sent her to Alys and Jeyne, who were kind enough to take over the recruit organization. Sansa had been too busy to do anything except greet her old companion. There would be plenty of time for befriend Brienne. She may never see Oberyn Martell again.

“But it could never work. We want different things. Have you thought about it? Do you love the Princess?”

“No,” he admitted. “We want different things. But I catch myself imagining what our children would look like.”

He sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the wall.

“I know my duty. I know who I must marry.”

Sansa cocked a brow, turning to stare at her brother. His handsome profile was grim. The irony if his words were not lost on her.“You don’t have to marry anyone you do not wish to.”

He ignored her. “Tell me about your dragon queen.”

She did. His eyes never left the sky as she described Danaerys Targaryen’s beauty, her ruthlessness, her temperament. She could be just and fair or incredibly cruel, but never against the innocent. She was a dragon. Fierce and passionate to the end. Sansa, however, did not want her brother to marry her.

“You deserve more than....this.” She waved her hand at the disgusting, overpopulated city.“The Martells expect a Dornish heir to the throne. And as much as I respect Danaerys, I wouldn’t want her for your wife.”

He raised a shoulder in a shrug. “The dragon kings had two wives. I don’t see why she shouldn’t have two husbands. And I thought you were friends.”

“Of a sort. Of a necessity, I suppose. Everyone was dying.” Sansa hesitated, unsure how to broach the topic. “Robb. She was barren. She couldn’t have children.”

“Come on,” he said, standing abruptly. He helped her to her feet. “Time to get back and distract you from such dour memories. You’ll send yourself back into a fit.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a delicate-“

“Aye, I think you proved that to Lord Willas well enough,” he said with a snicker.

 

They discussed strategy at the feast. Numbers and figures, pulling the puzzle of the undead apart. Sigorn and Tor and Uncle Benjen attended the celebration just for it. She had apologized to Sigorn for her outburst. Of course he knew the hardships of true winter. He had accepted. Something between them was different, however. They were not hyper aware of the other’s body. They shared small smiles instead of heavy looks.

It wasn’t her outburst. No, it wasn’t Sigorn’s way to lose . She believed it had more to do with her confession at the Tyrell’s luncheon. Sigorn did not understand her need for revenge, why she was so passionate about the politics of the city when she should turn back North. She would never blame him for it. She hadn’t lied to Robb. She trusted the Thenns and their harsh ways. Admired them. She just didn’t belong with them. Sansa Stark was a kneeler.

Sansa and Robb and their bannermen did not dance. They sat at their table with the Night’s Watch and the Thenns and the Blackfish. It was no less exhausting. Sansa glanced across the gardens at Arya in Petyr’s skin. Theirs wasn’t easy work but it was not the worst work a Stark must do.

The court feasted long into the night. Benjen and his brothers were the first of their table to leave. Then the bannermen. Soon, it was only Robb, Jon, Sansa and the Thenns. Robb helped her stand and paused to look back at the wedding reception. It was a beautiful sight. Candles dotted the gardens like little fairies. Extravagant centerpieces and untouched meals were ignored on the long tables.

Her brother obviously disagreed. A revulsion she’d never seen on him marred his handsome face.

“They are pathetic,” he spat.

Tor grunted in agreement. He certainly had nothing to complain about. The Thenns were returning North with a few Winterfell guards in the next couple of days. She would be sad to see them go, but she understood. She wanted nothing more than to run to the stables and go home with nothing but the clothes on her back.

“We need them,” she reminded him softly.

He grunted and led Sansa away. However, a large, tattooed man hooked his arm in hers and wrenched her away with the grace of a bull.

“I’ll escort the lady,” Tor Spiderslayer said in a horrendous accent.

He never dropped it, even when they reached the Stark chambers. For a moment, Sansa forgot herself. The question came unbidden, words dancing on her tongue as if threatening to escape on their own. It was shocking to want this man. Still, she couldn’t help be proud of herself for wanting it, for trusting someone enough to want them in her bed. Sansa Stark kissed the wildling on his cheek and slid into bed with Jeyne and Alys.

No sooner than she fell asleep did a rough shake startle her. Sansa jerked upright and someone cried.

“SANSA!” Robb hissed.

She blinked. It was still dark. Robb was in the doorway, barely noticeable except for his red hair. Jon, the gentle giant that had awaken her, was cradling his arm. She lowered the dagger she kept on her nightstand, scowling at them both.

“You know better than to wake me like that.”

“You nearly took off my beard,” Jon accused.

“Arya sent word,” Robb said.

There was something in his voice, in the way he carried his shoulders that had her throwing the covers off and striding to her brother. She ripped the parchment out of Robb’s hands and held it to the light filtering in from their solar.

Iron dread settled in her bones.

Their doom was scrawled Littlefinger’s rushed hand. Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, was dead.

“Sansa, what do we do?” Robb asked pleadingly.

A sick, twisted part of her, a remainder of who Ramsey made her, relished in his desperation. She pushed it aside just as quickly as it had surprised her. Instead, she accepted her dressing robe and boots from Alys. Jeyne, who had been asleep on the other end of the bed, was already crawling out from under the bed with their packs.

“It’s alright Jeyne, we don’t need them,” Sansa said. “Not yet anyway.”

She looked dejected, her big brown eyes blinking sleepily.

“What are those?” Robb asked, his brows furrowed.

“Our packs,” Sansa replied, just as confused. “For a quick escape....Robb, you do have a bag set aside for that don’t you?”

He and Jon shuffled nervously. Sansa wanted to scream.

“Well, I won’t be sharing my clothes with you,” Alys grumbled.

Jon looked at her, with her dark hair mussed and her curves peaking through, and blushed. It was rather adorable. Alys smirked and winked. The poor man almost keeled over in embarrassment.

It was all so amusing that Sansa nearly forgot what had happened. She closed her eyes, took a deep, deep breath and slipped back into the Red Wolf. The Lady of Winterfell that had barked orders and pages and loaded supply ponies as the dead rushed toward their gates.

“Girls, get dressed. Light the sitting room and make some tea. Robb, fetch Sigorn Domeric and Uncle Brynden. Benjen too if you can. Send word to Father and Jon. Jon. Grab your sword. You’ll come with me.”

The girls and Jon immediately rushed into action. Robb, for all the help that he needed, was not used to taking orders.

“Where are you going?” He demanded.

“To fish out a snake,” she said.

She and Jon walked down the hall, purposefully making their way to the Martell’s wing. It was only a few turns from their own, thank the Seven. As they rounded another corner, a flash of gold caught her eye. Sansa, for all the good it would do her, pointed her dagger at Oberyn Martell. Ser Daemon cursed at his side. The two men reached for their own blades, eyeing the Umber at her back wearily.

“What is your favorite poison?” Sansa demanded.

The Red Viper didn’t miss a beat. “Strychnine.”

Satisfied, she rounded on his guard. “What did the Spiderslayer steal from the castle?”

Seven days before, Oberyn had taken her and her ladies on a tour of the castle’s hidden places. Tor and Val had accompanied them out of boredom. At the end, they’d found themselves deep beneath the castle in a room that Sansa had never thought to see.

“A dragon’s fang.”

She nodded and lowered her weapon. She hadn’t really thought they were Faceless men, but Arya had demanded that they check in times of chaos.

“Was it you?” She asked.

“Don’t insult me,” he snapped. “No one wants Stannis as king.”

She sighed, motioning for him to follow her. “Apparently someone does.”

They made the trek back to her rooms in silence. Just before they reached the door, Jon spun her around. She looked up and up and up, until finally he scowled at her through all his hair.

“Are you mad or just stupid?”

She drew herself up as tall as she could. “Pardon?”

“Sansa!” He cried. “If you think there’s a bloody damn Faceless Man, you fucking run!”

“You-“

“You are a Stark of Winterfell. You are my lady. You are like a sister-” Oberyn scoffed behind them. Jon resolutely ignored him. “It is my duty and honor to protect you.”

“I am your lady-“

“Your sister will hear of this.”

Sansa cringed. She would rather face Stannis than Arya. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to Manical Coyote for getting it half right.


	22. duty and loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I combined chapters 19-21 and deleted the 'not an update' chapter, so the chapter numbers have changed. This is a new one as of May 17.

The Starks, as trusted allies of the late King, were given one of the most extravagant rooms in the Keep. The sitting room seemed smaller than a sky cell with the number of people crowded around the table. Robb and Sigorn had dragged a heavy accent table to the center. Every last inch of surface was covered with stacks of parchment and cups of tea. Oberyn had sent for his trusted advisors as well. One of which Sansa did not trust, but acknowledged his worth nonetheless. 

The bells rang as the sun rose. Most suspected Stannis and his Red Witch. Lady Melisandre’s reputation did not bode well for a smooth transition of power. Not that there would ever be one with the Tyrells whispering in Renly’s ear. Oberyn was of the belief that the King’s body had simply worn out. Sansa’s lies and omissions were beginning to work against her, but she couldn’t simply explain that Melisandre had performed blood magic for Stannis in an alternate timeline. Sansa rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. She might have said that Dorne had it worse if the North did not have the fate of the world on their shoulders. Years of scheming and planning all destroyed with four words: ‘The King is dead.’

“We are all in agreement, then?” Uncle Brynden asked. 

Uncle Benjen shuffled uncomfortably but did not balk. The plan required a very loose interpretation of his vows. Neither of his sworn brothers or any of their allies said a word against it. Yoren had even laughed at Robb’s trepidatious proposal, declaring that as far as he was concerned, it was breaking one vow to uphold the most important of them. She wondered what he thought of Jaime Lannister. 

The Starks sat on a pink sofa, far too fatigued to wish their guests a formal farewell. Everyone was too distracted to take it as an insult. Robb stood like an old man. His bones cracked as he stretched. 

“I need a kip,” he yawned. It broke off into a scowl as a heavy knock sounded from the door. Robb collapsed back into his seat, signaling for the guard to open the door. 

A stooped woman with an elaborate headdress entered, her sharp eyes taking in every inch of the room. Her strange twin guards took post outside with a sharp flick of her bony wrist. Olenna Tyrell waved off Robb’s offer and lowered herself with the just the help of her cane. 

“We cannot support Lord Renly,” Sansa announced in the silence. 

Gnarled fingers whitened on the bulbous gold cane. “Oh? And why not?”

“He is not Robert’s heir.” Sansa waited for the Tyrell matriarch to begin speaking before she continued. “And you will never win.”

Lady Olenna’s mouth snapped shut. 

“The Red Witch is a shadow binder from Asshai. She is capable of things you cannot imagine.”

“Which is precisely why we must keep her from the Throne.”

Sansa shook her head, almost pityingly. “The Throne does not matter.”

“Even if it did, we cannot spare any men for war,” Robb said. “Surely you knew that before you came here.”

“The sooner we defeat Stannis, the sooner we can ally against the Northern threat,” Olenna argued. 

“You will not win,” Sansa repeated calmly. 

“We will declare for Stannis and leave. There is only one war that matters,” Robb intoned. “Let Margaery marry me. She might not be queen but my family has ruled the north for thousands of years. Your blood will become part of an unrivaled legacy.”

Lady Olenna eyed him shrewdly. “You’re handsome, I’ll give you that. But my Margaery deserves more than a castle in the snow. She’s too beautiful and clever to waste away.”

Sansa bristled, but Robb shrugged. “Then she doesn’t deserve it.”

Olenna snorted. “What? Waiting in the cold for the dead to attack?”

“My family has been loved for thousands of years,” Robb answered. “And we have loved our people for just as long. We gave up a kingdom for our people. No one can say that. Not the Lannister’s or the Targaryens or the Baratheons. Not the Tyrells or the Gardners. And despite that love, our name brings fear. Wildlings and flaying men alike dread the day winter will come. My father faced an Other and it balked at the direwolf pommel of Ice. An Other. If your granddaughter cannot recognize us for what we are, then she does not deserve our name.”

Pride, fierce, blinding, unrivaled pride threatened to burst out of Sansa’s chest. This was the King in the North. This was the unblooded green boy that had brought Tywin Lannister to desperation. This was her big brother. She raised her chin at Lady Ollena’s astute gaze. 

Finally, the old woman sighed. She raised from the chair, her gold and cherry cane supporting all of her weight. 

“You will regret this,” she said, not unkindly. 

Sansa doubted that, but there was no use in arguing. Brother and sister watched their guest leave, sharing a heavy sigh when the door finally closed. 

“I’m getting some rest for Stannis. You should too.”

She nodded. There wasn’t any harm in trying.

* * *

 

The Iron Throne suited Stannis more than it suited his brother. He looked very stern in his gold crown encrusted with black diamonds and the blades of the throne framing his angular features. Looks were deceiving; the Red Priestess standing beside him proved that. Bran had told Sansa what he saw underneath her glamor long ago. Robert Baratheon was a shit king and a worse man but he was more intelligent than his brother. 

Sansa, Robb and Arya kneeled as one. The youngest Stark had barreled into their wing at the very last moment. She’d offered no explanation, just shoved herself into a dull dress and devoured a tray of biscuits. 

“Rise,” Stannis ordered, his voice null of any inflection.

They rose. Sansa carefully avoided Melisandre’s ruby stare. 

“You turned down a Tyrell alliance,” Stannis said. 

“They can not win,” Sansa answered just as coldly. 

The people in court shuffled among themselves. 

“So it is pragmatism and not duty and loyalty that brings you before your king now?” the witch asked. 

“Our duty and loyalty is to our people,” Robb answered spitefully. “There is only one war that matters and this is not it.”

“Which is no doubt why they fled after the bells rang,” Stannis said. He shifted, and winced, only for a moment. The trick to the throne was to not move. “Months ago the Lady Melisandre saw a direwolf abandoning me. Betraying me. She advised me to stop them this morning, but I did not. I can not hate you for ensuring the safety of your men.” His blue eyes bore into Sansa’s. “I know what it is to be young and have the fate of your men on your shoulders.”

Sansa forced her heart to calm. She took the long, even breaths that Petyr taught her as she stepped forward. “Then you can understand, Your Grace, why we cannot participate in your war. We pledge our fealty, but there is only one war that matters. “

Stannis nodded, the black gems catching the light. “Yes. I agree. I will take care of the Tyrells and head north when it is done. I will need hostages to ensure that the North doesn’t get any ideas.”

Sansa did not have to act. She did not have to draw on memories of what it was like to be scared and angry. She raised her chin and drew her shoulders back. If Lady were not hours north on the Kingsroad, she may have fought to keep herself grounded in her own skin. 

“Absolutely not,” Robb snapped. 

Again, the lords and ladies behind them shuffled on their feet. 

Stannis clenched his jaw. “Not all of you, of course. I’ll not take all of Ned’s children from him.”

“No,” Sansa said, glaring at the witch. A wave of murmurs and cries broke out through the crowd. “Not with her here. I know the power of king’s blood. She has already burned the Seven, she would burn our heart trees if giv-”

“ENOUGH!” Stannis ordered. 

The room quietened. Sansa did not balk from the inhuman red eyes staring at her. 

“Lady Sansa, you will take your sister home,” Stannis was saying. “As much as I’d like to keep an eye on her, the heir to Winterfell is insurance enough.”

Robb’s fingers bit down on Sansa’s arm. He pushed her behind him and bowed his head. 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Robb said, already turning away. He pulled Sansa along. They made it only three steps before Arya’s young voice rang through the room. Robb and Sansa froze, hearts pumping violence through their veins. 

Stannis did not bother to bite back a sigh. “Yes, Lady Stark?”

“Wouldn’t this be a lot easier if you just married the Tyrell girl?”

The new king ground his teeth and pushed to the edge of the throne, and  then abruptly slumped back. “Perhaps. Perhaps I should wait a few moons to see if she has Robert’s child. She’ll never have Renly’s, that at least is certain.”

It was that line, that small bit of dry humor that made Sansa doubt her plans. Stannis was not yet the man that burned his daughter. He could be a proper king with guidance. No, she thought, almost sadly. He does not have dragons. He will be just another man with a sword. 

Arya shrugged carelessly. That was not an act either. She truly didn’t care either way, Sansa knew. Without another word, her sister turned and led the way out of the throne room. 

 

Time passed slowly. The sun seemed to take eons to sink beyond the western forests and hills and even longer for the last pink hues to surrender to darkness. Stannis had the bells rung once more. A more melancholic tune, perhaps out of some lingering sibling affection for his dead brother or mourning the living one he'd lost to greed. Sansa remained stalwart in her watch, even as her sister joined her at the window to say her goodbyes. 

“You don’t need to do this,” Sansa said for what she knew would be the last time. “Come home with us.”

Arya shrugged. “Not killing Tywin was one of my only regrets.”

“You were a girl. You don’t need to make it up. Let them kill each other. Come home. Meet your baby brother or sister.”

“They need to die again. Polliver, the Tickler, the Mountain. They all need to die.”

“It’s not your responsibility.”

Arya met her sister’s glare head on. “No one else can do what I can.”

Sansa let out a long exhale, letting the frustration and anxiety out with it. “Just be careful.”

Her little sister, the most dangerous person in Westeros, lifted one side of her mouth into a smile. “When the cold winds blow....”

“The lone wolf dies.”

“But the pack survives. I’m not leaving the pack. I’m just off to have a bit of fun.”

Sansa finally turned away from the window to gather her sister in her arms. They squeezed one another tightly, and then Arya left without a backward glance. Worry knotted Sansa’s insides. She couldn’t silence the voice that whispered this was the last time she would ever see her sister. 

“Sansa?” Alys asked, coming out of their room. “Are you ready?”

She shook herself out of her reverie. 

“Yes. Are you?”

Alys held out the canvas bag as an answer. Sansa nodded and settled it across her torso. The girls, hand in hand, walked to Robb’s room, where he and Jeyne waited outside a large portrait of a fat woman. Roberta Baratheon, he’d called her. He reached up, as if to caress her rouged cheeks, and pushed in and to the side. The portrait slid soundlessly, revealing rusted iron bars on the dark wall beyond. 

Robb stepped back, bowing his head. “Ladies first.”

Alys, the bravest of them all, did not hesitate. Jeyne took a bit of encouragement  but went all the same. Then Sansa, then Robb, who used his lifetime of horsemanship to hold onto the ladder with his legs and reach around to latch the painting in place with his arms. Whoever would have thought it would be used to escape the capital? Down they went, all seventy rungs, as Varys said there would be. Robb skipped the last five in a show of boyish athleticism. And then, as Varys had promised, flint and a torch lay on the pockmarked floor. 

Sansa scowled at the pack’s strap pinching between her breasts as Robb lit the torch. The passageway was short and thin and lacked the finesse of the ones it mirrored. The geometry was off, the path darting in odd lines to accommodate the castle. Ten yards, a sharp left into a taller corridor, past a loud neighboring room, down a curving set of stairs, and through another hall, they went until the orange flames of another torch winked at them around a corner.

Alys took the torch, her dagger drawn, as Robb approached with his sword drawn. Sansa’s heart leaped into her throat. 

Oberyn Martell, his lover, his knight and probably lover, and Lord Varys lounged against the wall. The eunuch was the only one that did not appear at ease. His hands were clasped tight in his billowing sleeves and a frown could be seen under the hood of his roughspun cloak. 

“Ah, our friends have finally arrived,” Oberyn chirped. 

Ellaria scowled, bringing Jeyne and Alys closer to the light. “Are you well, dears? Good. I do so miss my girls, you’ll have to forgive me for clucking about like a mother hen.”

Jeyne gave a hesitant smile. “I am of the north, my lady. I am not frightened.”

Oberyn’s answering grin was feral. Varys only looked more unsettled. He cleared his throat. 

“I would rather leave before that witch finds us,” he muttered. “No torches and  step only where I step.”

With Ser Daemon’s help, he opened the heavy half rotted door and stepped

through. The knight followed, Alys after him, then Jeyne, Ellaria, Sansa, Robb, and Oberyn guarding their rear. Sansa could sense her brother’s unease.

The narrow passage was pitch black. She could not even see Ellaria, only smell the sandalwood oils in her hair. They continued slowly, all eventually placing a hand on the other’s shoulder. Occasionally, voices or lights filtered through small spy holes. Curiosity and voyeurism were almost impossible to resist. Varys was never without entertainment, that was certain. 

The halls and stairs gradually widened. Sansa smelled the ocean before she heard it and heard it before she saw it. The waning moon smiled down at them sadly as they arranged themselves in the small boat. Bags tripped feet and elbows knocked against ribs in their clumsy efforts. Finally, Oberyn pushed the boat into the sea and swiftly pulled himself over the hull. 

The six of them, Prince, bastard, and girl alike, rowed into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I like this chapter, but it had to be done to continue on with the story. Also, I love book Stannis so I'm sad to leave him behind.
> 
> A tease, if you want it: 
> 
> A plethora of sails and ships of every color and make crowded the harbor of Braavos. One glittered proudly, drawing the eye of all in the city even under the shadow of the Titan.  
> “Uncle,” Sansa called. “Is that the Golden Company?”


	23. Alayne Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the old romance in a bookshop trope

A plethora of sails and ships of every color and make crowded the harbor of Braavos. One glittered proudly, drawing the eye of all even under the shadow of the Titan.

“Uncle,” Sansa called. “Is that the Golden Company?”

Benjen strode over to lean against the rail beside his niece. She’d spent as much time as she could with him over their past month of sailing. The Night’s Watch was stopping at Braavos to warn Essos of the threat and meet with the Iron Bank. After Robert’s most unfortunate death, Benjen and Yoren had agreed to help with their escape on the condition that they would stall no longer than two days and not cancel their plans at Essos. They’d had no qualms. Varys could easily find passage to Pentos and Sansa had never seen any of the Free Cities.

“Aye.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes squinted as though he could see past the mountainous islands encircling the city. “Their fleet will be anchored further out at sea while a representative conducts business. The Iron Bank most like.”

“I suppose they’re expensive?”

He smirked. “They’re not called the Golden Company for nothing.”

“But they’re mostly exiles, no? And consider themselves Westori still. What if we offered them more than gold?”

“And what would Mean Ol’ Stannis say to that?”

Sansa sighed and turned back to the city. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. Braavos was carved out of the stone base of mountains. It’s creators were artisans of the highest caliber. She’d spent some of her life in a castle built on top of a mountain. Now she would see a city built on one’s foundations.

Benjen ruffled her hair. “Don’t fret over it, Sansa. It’ll work itself out. Worry about seeing all this city has to offer in only two days.”

“Your uncle is wrong about many things, celibacy chief amongst them, but he is right in this,” Oberyn said. “This is the Ragman’s Harbor, where all except Braavosi ships must dock, but on the other side is the Purple Harbor. The stonework is magnificent; it puts even the Eyrie to shame.”

“You’ve seen the Eyrie?” Sansa asked.

“Of course,” he purred, lounging against the ship’s railing. “Beautiful place. I penned some of my best poetry there.”

Benjen let out something between a bark, a laugh, and a cough.

“Excuse me but I’ve got to prepare myself for the Bank,” he announced. His voice was suspiciously strangled.

“That’s disturbing,” Sansa said, noticing the Prince’s unhidden desire for her uncle.

“What? My poetry?”

“Probably.”

Oberyn snickered.

“Tell me, when will I hear of your time in the Eyrie?” He asked, suddenly serious.

Sansa eyed the seagulls flying ahead. They were darker, somehow, than the ones in King’s Landing. She couldn’t risk him sending anything before they reached White Harbor.

“I’ll tell you everything once we’re out at sea,” she promised.

He hummed.

“Ah, the dark jewels of the North,” he announced. He greeted Alys and Jeyne with an exaggerated bow. “How are you this morn?”

“Well, thank you. It’s a beautiful day to explore the city,” Alys replied.

“And to buy fabric. I’m afraid the vagrant’s life is not for me,” Jeyne said with a sad smile. Sansa agreed wholeheartedly. The three of them had spent the last month rotating between two dresses each. Everything else, except for the jewels sewn into Smalljon’s pack, was abandoned in the capital.

“Would you mind taking Ellaria along with you? I think she would enjoy being away from so many men.”

The girls pretended to think over the answer. Ellaria had been a welcome reprieve. She was all that Sansa had once wished for in Cersei or her aunt Lysa. She was fiercely protective and loyal and unabashedly feminine. It was refreshing to see a woman that was fearsome in a dress instead of armor or leggings. Cersei and Margaery had seemed that way in the beginning. What did Ellaria cower into when it was all stripped away? Though perhaps Sansa was being cruel; growing up as a bastard did harden ones skin to the injustices of the world.

“Okay,” Jeyne said slowly. “But only if you trade Ser Daemon for Smalljon.”

Sansa’s stomach flipped with a sudden bout of nausea. The Red Viper and an Umber with free reign of a foreign city did not bode well for Westerosi-Essos relations. 

 

———

One port city was not very different from another. The smell of sea and salt and fish permeated everything. A new language could be heard with every step. Braavos, however, was not swelteringly hot. The network of islands and canals gave the city a tidier, more whimsical appearance. Sansa might have envied Arya if not for why she had been in Braavos. A curious part of her wanted to go to the House of Black and White but she knew better. She was familiar enough with the god of death. There was no good reason to seek him out.

Ellaria took them to markets closer to western part of the city. Her Valyrian was the best out of their group. She even knew a little Braavosi from a previous visit with Oberyn that made even Alys blush. The market was a wondrous hall carved from a particularly narrow island. The ceiling, which might have been dark, was made entirely out of peaked glass. Her mouth went dry just thinking about the cost.

“Oh! Sansa, this would be beautiful with your coloring. Or perhaps Alys’.”

Jeyne held up a very dark purple silk that shimmered in the sun.

Sansa glanced up at the ceiling. “It’s lovely. Though I’m afraid I won’t have any use for silk with winter coming.”

“Don’t be droll,” Ellaria argued. Sansa liked the way the word trilled in the Dornish accent. “It would make a wonderful trim. It complements the grey and white of your house beautifully.”

She chewed on her lip and finally relented with a sigh. “Alright. Only half a yard.”

Jeyne bustled over to the stall owner, a dark skinned woman with braided hair.

“I’ll take a yard, please,” Jeyne announced loudly.

Sansa rolled her eyes and turned to Ellaria. Her arms were laden with purchases of warm fabrics for her stay in the north. Sansa and her ladies had bought colors and materials that would have been twice as expensive in White Harbor. She’d also placed an order for herbs that Lewin would appreciate.

“Is there a book vendor nearby?” Sansa asked.

Ser Daemon approached a Bravo in a vivid turquoise top snacking on an oyster. After a short conversation, the knight led them through the maze of stalls to the center of the hall. The booths here were larger and sturdier, some even made of wood. Sansa smile stretched so wide it tugged at her cheeks. There weren’t half as many books as the library of the capital, but there were sure to be so many stories and songs new to her.

Suddenly, Ser Daemon bowed low, pulling her free hand to his lips. He kissed it softly, peering up through his blonde hair.

“Your smile is exquisite, Lady Stark,” he said.

Sansa could hear Jeyne’s giggle from behind them. She was a bit flustered. It was an honest compliment from a man to a woman. Not from a suitor to an heir or a lord to his warden. Different from all of Sigorn’s in that it was laced with a different type of respect than that of her ancestral legacy.

As Sansa browsed the books, she found herself thinking of dangerous things. Of what it might have been like if she were not Lady of Winterfell, of what it might be like to fall in love. She sighed wistfully, the heavy tome answering with its own as she snapped it shut.

An embossed silver dragon caught her eye. She reached for the book, delighted to see that it was in the Common Tongue. She sat on a nearby stool to see if Jon might like it.

“Excuse me.”

Sansa looked up. And up. A tall, handsome young man with shocking blue hair glanced hesitantly from her to Ser Daemon, who loitered menacingly at the end of the shelf. His borrowed black armor only heightened the threatening facade. The stranger cleared his throat before addressing her again.

“Do you plan to purchase that book? I believe I have another in the series, or perhaps it the same in a different color.”

She couldn’t place his accent. It was Westerosi with an inflection completely different from Oberyn or Ellaria’s. Something harsh, yet flowing in the way only Valyrian sounded. A traveler of some kind, perhaps. A well to do one if the quality of his tunic was any indication. Interesting.

“It’s called Dragons of Essos?” He asked. His shoulders slumped at her nod. “By the man with the terrible name?”

So it wasn’t a ploy to approach her. Indeed, the author’s impossible name took up half of the page: Taecegarys Maenmaereon. The stanger grew even more crestfallen at whatever he saw in her expression.

“I can’t say I’m sorry,” she told him, standing gracefully. “Both my brother and my sister will enjoy this book.”

My ex-husband would as well, she thought with amusement.

“You’re Westerosi?” He asked. His eyes were the most peculiar shade of dark blue. Almost purple with them so widened in surprise. No wonder her father had fallen in love with Ashara Dayne.

“Yes. My lady is visiting Essos with her uncle,” she lied, relaxing her posture into that of a maid. “She’s off looking at fabrics and gave me leave to shop.”

“Who is your lady?”

Sansa looked down, chewed on her lip.

“Forgive me,” he blurted. “My father is from the Stormlands and taught me much about our homeland. I am always excited to meet a traveler from Westeros.”

The mysterious, handsome stranger was a member of the Golden Company then. His father was, at least, and probably high ranking if he joined the business discussions. Petyr’s lessons immediately took over.

“You might be interested to hear that the Night’s Watch docked just before us, then.”

“Truly? From the Wall?”

She shrugged like Arya. “I guess. They stopped Lord Owen and asked him to attend some sort of demonstration tomorrow at noon. The Stormlands, you said?”

The young man grimaced. “Yes.”

“Terrible about King Robert, wasn’t it?”

He froze. He blinked once. Twice. Then slipped into a character much like her own: young, charming, ready to gossip. Whoever the stranger was, he was talented and educated. “What was terrible? We’ve been on a contract in North Valyria. Good news is hard to come by at sea.”

“Well...” she leaned forward conspiratorially. “We heard when we stopped in the Saltpans. Nearly everyone was at the royal wedding but Lady Edith had already...Nevermind. Apparently the King‘s heart gave out on his wedding night.”

“What do you mean?”

“He died, of course. Without and heir too, with all that dreadful business with Lady Cersei. So now Stannis is king but Renly declared himself too. It’s terrible. I think Lord Owen is going to see about fostering Lady Edith here until the war is over....Are you alright?”

“Yes. Yes. Forgive me. My father will be interested to hear of all this.”

“Of course. You’ll go tomorrow, won’t you? To see the demonstration?”

He nodded politely, the courteous sellsword once more. “I hope so, my lady.”

“Oh I’m not a lady. Just Alayne. I hope you come too.”

He nodded a final farewell and exited as quickly as he could without breaking his act. Daemon followed her to the seller’s table.

“I believe that is the most I’ve heard you speak, Alayne,” he said.


	24. win the game or live

The demonstration in Braavos went much like the one in King’s Landing. This one, however, was in view of any that cared to see. More people than they anticipated crowded around the harbor’s stone selling platform. Any chance for a good bit of gossip, she supposed. Benjen’s speech differed from his first in that honor and duty were not emphasized. Their intended audience were the ones with no prospects and desperate enough to fight a war on a different continent. Volunteers would not have to swear vows and would be provided with food, shelter, and clothing. It was clever. She could see the potential for a larger, more diverse population- and therefore economy- in the North as well.

A trio of men in varying shades of violet and the exaggerated sleeves of Braavosi watched intently. The bankers showed little fear, foolish enough to believe their money and reputation would protect them. The living could be just as ruthless as the dead in the Long Night. Food and fire would be twice the amount of gold. Despite their lack of fear, the men did seem to grasp the gravity of their situation. They joined the Night’s Watch on the platform with grim countenances. One of them poked at the corpse with a staff. Sansa frowned at him, trying to figure what he hoped to accomplish.

“You’re a Stark,” someone accused.

The young man with blue hair from the book stall scowled at her. She was relieved to be as tall as she should be again, just two or three inches shy of six feet. The stranger was only a little more than that. The Umbers and Sandor alone could give her a good stare down. And Arya, of course, but that was nothing to be ashamed of.

“I haven’t the slightest idea of who you might be,” she said calmly.

“I am called Young Griff,” he said, chin raised. “My father is Griff, second in command of the Golden Company only to Harry Strickland.”

“Well met, Young Griff. How did you guess my true name?”

“My septa recognized your uncle. You have the same face and nose. She recognized your mother, too, she said.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t see a septa in attendance.”

“Was any of it true then?” He spat, ignoring her altogether.

She was a bit taken aback by his aggressiveness. She’d done nothing, really, but lie and her father did not have....Of course. Her father had won the civil war that resulted in many exiles. This Griff, whoever he was, would have lost a great deal to Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.

“Yes. Robert Baratheon died and now his brothers are squabbling over the throne.”

“And you’re not?” He snapped. One of the black brothers frowned in his direction. Young Griff sidled back, clenching his jaw hard enough to make Stannis proud.

“No,” she said, still serene in the face of his anger. “We have more to worry about than who sits on a throne.”

She cast a dry look at the wight’s severed torso.

“Sansa!” Ellaria called. The paramour wound her way through the crowd, Alys and Jeyne in tow. Her lips curled into a smile at the sight of Young Griff. “Who’s this?”

He paled, eyes wide as he took in her ochre cloak and yellow dress.

“You’re Dornish,” he choked out.

She cocked a brow. “What of it?”

“My mother was Dornish,” he murmured, never tearing his eyes from hers.

Ellaria’s demeanor changed into the one Sansa was coming to realize as her true one- that of a mother. She took the stranger’s face in her hands and kissed both of his cheeks. “Then I greet you, Son of Dorne.”

He stepped back, obviously shaken. How interesting that the sudden appearance of a Dornish woman unsettled him more than the undead. His mystery deepened with every encounter. Perhaps he was not as good at the game as she’d guessed.

Or perhaps she put too much emphasis on the game. Roose Bolton, Tywin Lannister, and Peter Baelish were all cold, unfeeling men. Was it better to win the game or live? Actually live, love and fight and scream and cry and laugh? There could be a balance, maybe, if she did not aim higher than to protect her family and her people. Couldn’t there? Or would allowing herself that be her downfall?

Ellaria’s voice cut through her dark thoughts.

“Will you be in the city tonight? I will await you at the Moon Pool at sundown. I know someone you would enjoy meeting.”

He nodded grimly, bowed to both of them, and scurried off. A muscled man with ginger hair followed quickly behind. A guard, a friend, or a jailor? And why did a grown man have a septa, still? Odd. Very odd.

“Sansa, would you like to take a tour of the canals?” Alys asked.

“Only if Jon and Daemon both come along. Someone has recognized us.”

Alys’ sharp lips vanished into a disapproving line.

“It’s nothing to worry over. Stannis knows where we are going.”

Her friend studied her doubtfully before allowing herself to be pulled along.

 

Sansa knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Oberyn Martell had disappeared; the Viper stood in his place. Fear permeated the air thicker than the stench of fish and the sea. The men were petrified. They curled in on themselves and peered over their shoulders as they worked in the pale morning light. Two even put on thick ice handling gloves to ward off any poison.

Sansa joined Ellaria where she stood out of the way, watching her lover with something fierce and soft in her gaze.

“Is all well?” Sansa asked.

“For whom?”

She cut the woman a hard look, the one she’d learned from Lyanna Mormont. Ellaria turned back to her petulant prince. Sansa took it as a victory.

“These men-“ Sansa began.

“Oberyn no longer kills aimlessly,” Ellaria interjected. And then softer, more dangerously, “You best hope your hands are clean of this.”

Sansa reigned in the sudden urge to push the woman into the dirty sea, her fingers twitching with the imagined splash and scream. Instead, she watched the prince’s boots worry at the wooden deck.

“If one hair on my head is out of place the last thing you will have to worry about is a pack of direwolves hunting you down. Even the dragonrider I call-“

Sansa’s threat- which was shaping up to be one for the ages- was cut off by a sudden heavy crash. The Viper sneered down at the prostrate body of Lord Varys. One foot dangled off the gangway. He hadn’t even made it completely onto the ship.

Oberyn’s gleeful smile was blinding. Even in madness he was stunning. He dragged his victim across the ship with the grace of a peg legged pirate. Varys would wake hurting. No one, not a sailor or a passenger, did anything to help the spymaster.

Sansa took a deep breath. It would be a very long trip home.

She left Ellaria alone on the deck to warn Robb of all that had happened in the short time she’d been awake. Instead, she found herself pausing outside another cabin. Two men were speaking rapidly....in Dothraki? She might not understand, but she recognized it well enough.

A series of cries and stomps sounded from above. Then, slowly, the ship took off to sea. A door creaked open and Robb popped his head into the narrow hall. Sansa shook her head, waving him back in his room and praying that he understood. As soon as he disappeared, Sansa put a scowl on her face and knocked. Ser Daemon answered, his blue eyes tinged with exhaustion.

“Prince Oberyn needs help with Varys,” she announced.

The knight hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Ellaria is trying to help, but he’s a heavy man. Go.”

He still did not move.

“You can feel the ship gaining speed. There is nowhere for them to run.”

At that, Ser Daemon nodded and hurried up the stairs with suspicion marring his handsome face. Robb immediately joined her, hair disheveled and shirt untucked. Together, they slipped into the makeshift prison.

The blue haired man and his muscled friend were tied and chained to the bed. Most cots and tables in the cabins were bolted down into the floor or built into the walls. Sansa, Jeyne, and Alys shared a room with four narrow beds, ‘bed’ being a gracious term for the slabs of wood protruding from the walls and covered with thin mattresses. The new holding cell outshone her rooms in every way. It would have cost quite a bit if The Dawnbringer were a passenger ship.

“Well met once more, Young Griff,” she said, not bothering to hide her curiosity.

He licked his lips nervously. He might have been gorgeous without the ridiculous hair. 

“You are the most mysterious man I have ever met. No explanation I conjure up fits,” she admitted.

“Care to enlighten us?” Robb asked, pretending not to care either way. He did well pretending that he knew what was going on. The most she’d said was that they had been recognized at the docks.

Young Griff snarled. “What explanation do I owe a Stark?”

“None,” Robb said with cool confidence, “but it would be in your interests. This ship is stopping at White Harbor on its way back to Eastwatch. As capable as the Viper is, three Dornishmen can not escape an entire city, especially with three prisoners. If I knew why he’s taken you, I might find it beneficial to help.”

The prisoners hissed to one another in Dothraki. After a vicious argument, Young Griff’s cuffs chimed as he sank in defeat. 

“My true-....” he sighed heavily. “My name is Aegon.”

But what could that have to do with Varys and Ober.....

The ludicrous, foolish plan played itself out in her mind. A modicum of respect for Varys died with it. She’d thought he wouldn’t underestimate anyone. A eunuch mummer that fought his way to whisper in a King’s ear should know better than to neglect any piece on the board. Though perhaps it shouldn’t have been unanticipated. Everyone had brushed her aside.

“When will you fools ever learn?” She asked aloud.

“Sansa?” Robb asked.

She ignored him, instead turning to the blue haired pawn at her feet. “Did you know of their schemes? Did you want to be king?”

“I am so confused,” Robb groaned.

“Jon Connington raised me on stories of my father and yours. He told me that we would take revenge on what yours did to mine. My septa taught me the Seven and our way of life and the Golden Company taught me how to kill. I know-”

“Who’s your father?” Robb snapped.

Sansa answered before the young man could. “He was told his father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“Shit,” Robb cursed, leaning against the dining table.

She knelt down to study the you man further. There was nothing of Jon in him, not even in the nose and brow that reminded Jaime of Prince Rhaegar. There wasn’t much of Danaerys either. Perhaps in the lips or the eyes, but Val had full lips and the Daynes had purple eyes.

“You know a Targaryen?” The other man rumbled. This close she could see his ginger hair was bleached to strawberry in places from the sun.

“One or two,” she said dismissively.

The would be Targaryen paled. “You said you brother and sister would enjoy the book.”

Shit. She shouldn’t be surprised, if all that he said was true. He would have begun a conqueror’s education before he could walk.

“Do you really think Ned Stark would hide a Targaryen from Robert Baratheon? I thought you were trained to be smarter than that,” she chided.

“Not a Targaryen,” he said slowly, still mulling the thought over. “But if the Stark girl birthed a bastard....”

Sansa bit hard on the inside of her cheek as she stood. This Aegon character would have been a formidable king: intelligent, handsome, charismatic. It was almost a shame.

“Is this Connington fellow in the Golden Company?” Robb suddenly asked.

“Second in command,” the soldier answered promptly, pride straightening his spine.

Robb caught her eye. She knew what he was thinking. She was of the same mind.

“We will intercede with Martell,” her brother announced. “If you can ensure the Golden Company’s support in the Long Night.”

The prisoners shared a silent conversation.

“How do we know the Prince will listen to you?” Young Griff asked.

“Oberyn Martell is Dornish,” Sansa answered. “He will realize that I would never take part in this idiocy. It seems only the Dornish and the Free Folk know better than to underestimate women. Why would Elia Martell give up her baby boy and leave her firstborn girl to slaughter? And I would not have disregarded Danaerys Targaryen. Her brother surely raised her to want revenge as Connington did you. Are you frightened of her?”

He ground his teeth together, strange eyes glaring into hers.

“You should be,” she advised. “You’ll have to prove yourself to her and there’s only one test she’ll accept. If the dragon you must try to ride does not kill you then she will destroy everyone you love. Help the North you hate so much and they may help you when the time comes.”

Sansa glanced at Robb and tilted her head in the direction of the hall. He nodded curtly.

“My sister and I have a lot to discuss. One of us will visit later to inform you of your position,” he said in farewell.

Ever the gentlemen, he held the door for his sister.

“So you do not believe I am Aegon, either?” The man called.

Sansa peered at him over her shoulder, considering him again.

“You do not have to be a Targaryen to be an Aegon and you do not have to be an Aegon to be a king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ll FINALLY be back in the North next!!!!!!!


	25. Friends and Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be the first part of the next chapter, but it couldn’t transition well so I’m making it as it’s own. 
> 
> The North IS next, I swear, it’s why I couldn’t get these scenes to transition well and it’s too important to scrap.

Oberyn Martell twitched in his seat like a boy itching to go play. The Martell cabin, adjacent to the captain’s, was spacious and decorated.

“Have you decided if you’re going to kill me?” Sansa asked.

“Of course not,” he huffed. Just as she was convinced that he’d seen reason, he explained, “Killing you now-“

“Oberyn, please.” She interjected. Ellaria shifted beside him, trying to catch Sansa’s eye. Princes never liked to be interrupted. “You’re one of the most clever men I’ve ever known. If you-“

“And you’ve known a lot of men in your short life, hiding away with your head in the snow?”

She took a deep, calming breath. “I owe you many truths Prince Oberyn but I will not share them if you are incapable of clear thought.”

He fixed her with a hard, unblinking stare that made even the stoic Sansa Stark uncomfortable. What a joy it would have been to see this man with Ramsey. He would not have sold her to such a beast, no matter if he earned Winterfell or not.He would have simply reached out and took it for himself.

“We’ll need wine for this,” she finally conceded.

As angry as he was, he was her friend and she owed him the truth.

Ellaria immediately hurried off to the drink cabinet.

“Not afraid I’ll poison you in my incapacity for clear thought?” He snarked. Ellaria scowled at him as she placed three wine glasses between them. It was no Dornish red, that was certain. The drink was sour enough that Sansa could smell it as soon as the bottle was uncorked. It put her in mind of Tyrion. Pod and Bronn had always changed the wine out to something less expensive when he was deep in his cups.

Oh Tyrion.

She took a long drink and met Oberyn’s viper stare.

“I died in the Battle for Dawn.” She frowned. That didn’t feel right. “No. The Battle for Winterfell. We were fighting to live, not fighting for the living. I’m not sure how old I was. In my early twenties, I know. The winds and snow were too strong for the sun or ravens. Time passed with the people dying around you.”

She knocked back her glass. Ellaria immediately filled it, manicured brows furrowed as the liquid splashed against the glass.

“I awoke in my bed with no more than three and ten years to my name. I...We- Jon and Arya and I- immediately came up with a plan. Westeros needed to remained united if we wanted to defeat the Others. So, we revealed Cersei. I once swore to never step foot below the Neck again, but Robert demanded a Stark be at his wedding and I knew my father would get killed there. Again.”

Legs twitching, head rolling, the roar of the crowd.

She pushed it all down.

“We were meant to secure allies, kill Littlefinger, and go back home. None of this was meant to happen.”

“Secure allies?! Yet you did not think to mention that the eunuch had a mockery of my family and their sorrow hiding under his robes?!”

“I didn’t know-“

“You claim to have lived this life and to be ignorant-“

“I did not go to Essos in my past life,” she snapped. “I did not speak to Varys. I did not and do not like him. He stood by and watched the Kingsguard strip and beat me in front of the entire court. He stood by while an innocent girl was abused yet offered to spirit a Lannister’s whore across the Narrow Sea because it suited his interests.”

Oberyn pushed his chair back and began pacing, thinking furiously. He waved to motion that he was still listening.

“I didn’t see Varys for years after I fled King’s Landing. He arrived at Winterfell with Danaerys Targaryen and claimed to have been supporting a Targaryen restoration over the years. She must have rendered Young Griff- or Aegon or whatever he is called now- useless. There were rumors that Cersei had hired the Golden Company near the end.”

“How so?” Oberyn asked.

Sansa snorted. “Besides bringing dragons back into the world, you mean? She freed the Unsullied, broke the chains of Slavor’s Bay, conquered the Dothraki, killed Victarion Greyjoy and used his fleet to sail to Dragonstone with her new army.”

Oberyn sat down.

Ellaria eventually cleared her throat. “This is a lot to accept, you understand.”

Sansa nodded. She understood that more than anyone. “I can leave you-“

“No.” Oberyn ordered, his hands clawing at his hair. “How did you escape the capital? How did you manage it when a princess of Dorne did not?”

“Bad luck.”

His head shot up, venom in his feral gaze.

“Petyr Baelish was infatuated with my mother. I look so very much like her and I was a stupid little girl. Littlefinger took me from the people that murdered my family, stole kisses and touches, and sold me to more people that murdered my family. It isn’t that I do not pity your sister, but I would not wish my fate on any other.”

“Who was it?” Ellaria asked.

Sansa could not keep from pulling at her sleeves. The scar on her arm itched with the memory.

“It doesn’t matter. I watched them die, both of them.”

“And your brother?” Oberyn demanded. “You did not mention him but he has the scars too.”

“That’s because he’s an idiot. He wanted to know what we were keeping from him so he asked the gods to show him as well. He says he only saw visions.”

“And you believe him?”

“He would not be with us if he had lived it. He would have went to exact his own revenge.”

“What revenge?”

“That’s hardly-“

“If you want me to even consider believing you, then you will answer any and all questions I have.”

“The Freys,” she bit out, refusing to cower under him. She had faced worse than his temper. “They broke guest rights and murdered my brother and his army. The Red Wedding, they called it. Orchestrated by Tywin Lannister, Walder Frey, and Roose Bolton. He knows, of course, but it was one thing to know and another to remember your unborn child being ripped from its womb.”

Ellaria let out a strangled cry. Even Oberyn recoiled.

“Arya got to kill them last time. She cooked Walder Frey’s sons in a pie and fed it to him. She fed it to them all, let him watch as his house died from poisoning and then announced herself and slit his throat. She’s rather fond of cutting throats.”

The ship rocked along waves as the Martells struggled to absorb all they’d heard. Sansa was content to let them. Oberyn appreciated dramatics. It was part of why they got along so well. She sipped on her wine and peered at the artifacts lining the walls. There as a strange weirwood mask with black feathers hanging near the bed. A chill ran down her spine, Bran’s cold voice echoing in her memories. You looked so beautiful.

“‘Arya got to kill them last time?’ You mean to kill them this time?” Oberyn asked.

“Not quite. My brother is a dragonrider. He’s more honorable than I am, but I’m sure he can be convinced if the women and children are removed.”

“It could be years before Danaerys returns.”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m patient.”

Another reason they were friends. They knew how to wait, poised to attack, until the best opportunity revealed itself. An image of a viper and a direwolf hunting a weasel in the forest sprang to mind. She pushed it aside. If she asked Oberyn for help with anyone of that sort, it would be Ramsey Snow.

“And Dorne? What happened to Dorne?”

“You hardly fared better than the Starks.”

“What. Happened.”

She sighed. “Keep in mind that anything I learned of your family was from Danaerys and her advisors. From what I understand, Arianne was meant to marry Viserys. She never knew this, so when nothing came about because of his death, she thought her father was disowning her. She began making her own plans with the princess Myrcella, who was betrothed to Trystane. Meanwhile, Quentyn was sent to marry Danaerys, but the fool got himself killed when he tried to mount a dragon. In the end, Doran sent Ellaria and the eldest Sand Snakes to treat when the Targaryen forces arrived at Dragonstone. There was an alliance, but....Well. Everyone died at Winterfell.”

They were quiet once more, just the waves and the sailors breaking their contemplative silence.

“And Oberyn? Why was Oberyn not with me?” Ellaria asked.

Sansa met his eyes, silently questioning if he wanted to know. It was enough for Ellaria. She abruptly stood up and left the room, tears shining in her dark eyes.

“How.”

“The Mountain.”

“Did I kill him?”

“Yes. And no. Cersei did some kind of dark magic with a man named Qyburn. That I have from a source I trust.”

With one swift movement, the Red Viper was out of the room and chasing after his paramour. Sansa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She saw that her hands were shaking. She clenched them together in her skirts and counted to ten. When she could breathe steadily again, she picked up the chairs and put the wine and glasses back where they couldn’t break.

Ser Daemon was still standing outside the door.

“Ser. I would like to apologize for lying to you,” she said.

He did not shy away from her as other guards might. He met her stare unblinkingly. Very well. She couldn’t blame him for his grudge. She couldn’t make him believe her, either. Still, she needed to say it.

“I hardly ever mind the things I do for my family, but lying to a good man left a bitter taste in my mouth. Prince Oberyn is lucky to have you.”

She’d made it to the short exit stairs when he spoke.

“I knew you were lying, but it was as you said. There was nowhere for you to run. I am sorry, Lady Sansa, that you must lie to good men and sail with bad ones for the sake of your family.”

Sansa gave a small nod and tried to ignore the sudden burning in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I’m kind of toying with the idea of her and Oberyn being friends with benefits. They’re friends and attracted to each other and both are mature enough to not expect anything else of it. 
> 
> There wouldn’t be any smut, just a few hints. Is that out of character, do you think?


	26. Wolf’s Den

The Heart Tree of Wolf’s Den towered over them all, it’s white branches fighting the black ramparts and barred windows for dominance. One look at its fierce, snarling face left no doubt as to who would win the ancient duel. The back of

Aegon’s neck prickled. He hadn’t felt such an eerie sensation in a long time. Not since he’d been to the House of Black and White three years ago.

A willowy figure stood before the tree. Aegon approached her, snow crunching under his boots. He and the Dornish had never seen snow. Even the enigmatic Sansa Stark smirked at their wonder, claiming it could get as deep as a pond. He had not refused the offer to outfit them all with a winter wardrobe after that. Pride would not be the death of him or Duck.

Sansa turned as he neared close enough to touch the tree. He looked from her to it and back again. Something turned in the pit of his stomach.

“It won’t bite, you know,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching.

He shook his head. It wasn’t that. And he would absolutely not be touching one of the damned trees in any case. Not that he would ever admit it. Instead, he only told her half of what he was thinking. He didn’t trust her with all of it yet anyway.

“My tutors always said only a Stark could hold the North. I listened, of course, but I didn’t truly believe them. Youthful arrogance and all that.” He glanced again from her red hair and porcelain skin to the white bark and scarlet leaves of her Gods. “I have seen many places and met many people. Everyone claims to be something, to lay claim to somewhere. It’s different with you lot. The North claims you as much as you claim her. I’ve never seen anything like it. I doubt I ever will again”

Sansa’s blue eyes studied him beneath that terrible emotionless mask of hers. Unease followed in their wake. This childlike infatuation with her would be the death of him. His clothes were not as tailored as he would like and despite scrubbing his scalp raw, a soft blue tinted his newly silver hair. Even with all that, he was still damned good looking and he knew it. So why in the seven hells did she make him feel so inadequate?

“I wonder if that is how it was for Valyrians as well.” She said, still staring at his hair.

“What do you mean?”

“Magic is strong here. The only other place I can think of magic tied so inextricably with the land is Valyria. What sort of claims did they have to their island that they ruled dragons? Or the island to them?”

“Magic is strong in Asshai and the Shadowlands as well. It could have nothing to do with land.”

“Have you been?”

The boy in him wanted to lie, to boast and say he conquered every cursed rock.

“Gods no. I hope I never do. I don’t like magic. It’s unpredictable.”

“Sensible.”

He snorted. “The beautiful, mysterious Witch Wolf calls me sensible. Nothing could wound my pride more.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re in the North, Aegon. Sensible is a compliment.”

Oh. Wait. Was she flirting with him?

“Well, thank you.”

She raised one shoulder in a shrug.

Ah. Definitely not flirting.

“Unfortunately, I did not invite you here for a discussion on magic. We must speak of Prince Oberyn.”

Aegon worked very hard to hold in a groan. It didn’t fool her. She frowned like a septa would at a petulant child.

“I am facing a very serious threat to my people. I do not have the time to worry about a Dornish prince attacking a Northern guest or the guest-“

“Do you take me for a fool?” He interrupted. “Who in their right mind would try to attack Oberyn Martell?”

Her fingers twitched. Good. He wanted to get under her skin, to see why everyone feared such a young woman. She was incredibly smart, yes, and apparently had visions of the future, but why would that make even Dornish knights and hardened brothers of the Night’s Watch hesitant? Aegon had seen the way they watched her. There was lust, of course, and more than a bit of unease. Lord Robb had visions as well, but no one watched him like he was some feral creature.

“What happened that night?” She asked.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Of course, but there are two sides to every story. And Prince Oberyn has a flair for dramatics.”

Aegon snorted. “You don’t say.”

She stared at him in silence. With a begrudging sigh, he launched into the tale.

“I thought Ellaria was with an old Dornish knight or an important lord or something of the like. Not....not in a thousand years could I have expected the Red Viper, the infamous Prince of Dorne. The man I thought to be my uncle, mind you. Everyone talked of Rhaegar and the Targaryens but only my septa ever spoke of the Martells and Dorne. So, when he introduced himself, I panicked. The words just came out. He starts yelling and cursing and the next thing I know, I’m chained to a bed on a strange ship at night with an angry viper hissing at me.”

She considered his words. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, she said, “My brother tells me you have handled your captivity well.”

Lord Robb and his friend Smalljon had spent much of their voyage with the black brothers while Sansa and her ladies were sequestered with the Dornish. Ser Daemon removed their chains only a few days out at sea, so Egg and Duck dallied with the crew as we in an attempt to avoid the Prince. The men shared stories and drinks for the month long voyage.

“Not much else to do on a ship,” he said.

“And Lord Varys?” She inquired.

Aegon grimaced. Lord Varys had been beaten to a pulp and dumped in a dockside tavern. No one on board had moved to help him. Apparently, the spymaster of kings was now a messenger boy.

”Why should I care for a man that has ruined my life?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Has he?”

“What?”

“You were raised to be a conqueror. You have a king’s education and a soldier’s experience. It’s more than many can hope to have.”

“Well yes, I suppose, but who was my father if not Rhaegar Targaryen? Who was my mother? Did they take me from my family? I’ve wanted nothing more since I was a boy. The only reason I wanted the crown was to be closer to-“

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her eyes cast to heavens.

“Pardon?!” He cried incredulously. 

“If you want to survive this kingdom, never tell another what you want. You hold a man’s puppet strings if you know what they truly desire.”

The facade of an elegant noblewoman was cast aside for something cruel and mocking. Was this the real Sansa Stark?

Then, softer, she said, “You’ve given me the means to destroy you. Don’t give it to anyone else.”

She looked back at the Heart Tree. Somehow, it did not seem to threaten her with its snarl. Not like it did him.

“Something has come up and we will leave at first light. You may accompany us if you wish, or wait and travel with Ellaria and my friends the following day. I do not care if you speak with Oberyn on the road or tonight as long as it is done before Winterfell.”

Aegon, completely puzzled and a little offended, did not bother with courtesies. He left the cold witch of wolves with her snarling gods.

 

Aegon did not muster the courage to confront Prince Oberyn. Instead, he pouted over a pint of ale with Duck, then slept fitfully for a few hours. First light in Westeros was something very different from Essos. The sky was still black with just a tinge of violet. Duck yawned and grumbled about there being no light to call it first light.

There were more Manderly guards than he’d thought there would be. Perhaps more men were needed further north, but Egg doubted Lady Sansa was foolish enough to leave her southern border unprotected. It was none of his business either way.

The lady herself was mounted on a dappled mare. Northern horses were studier creatures than he’d ever seen, all strong legs and broad backs. Interestingly, though perhaps he should have predicted it, she did not bother riding side-saddle. Sensible. Lady Sansa and her fellow northerners did not bother with the cloaks and hats and gloves like their guests either. Not that he was complaining. Gods, was she beautiful. The sooner he found a northern girl to distract himself with, the better.

They galloped through the gate without fanfare. More people were tilling about than he had expected. Some paused to wave or bow or nod, but none bothered to go out of their way, not like they had when they arrived. Their ride into the city had been much more cumbersome.

Aegon found the North cold and green and grim. Stark, one might say. It was empty as well, despite the rolling hills and dense trees. A Manderley knight explained the winters were too brutal to entice any small folk to migrate. It was true for those in Westeros, but Egg had seen the brutal deserts and slavery throughout the east. It was something he could bring up with the lords later.

The White Knife roared at their left until after lunch. They left it behind as they thundered east. A few hours later, beside a copse of trees, Lord Robb pulled their company to a halt. Many hopped down to stretch their legs or relieve themselves. Soon though, the horses began to whine. Their ears twitched and afew stomped their feet. Egg shushed his stallion, rubbing the white streak on its chestnut head. He squinted at the trees, trying to see what made them so uneasy, when he saw it. A big grey thing lumbering through the greenery on four legs. Prowling. Hunting.

“HOLY SHIT!” He yelled, drawing his sword and edging Sansa.

No one answered. No one moved. No one else displayed any signs of fear other than Duck.

The guards chuckled, albeit nervously. Lord Robb walked over to the beast. It looked a lot like an overgrown, furry dog. It’s teeth....seven hells, it’s teeth. His arms were so damn close to it’s teeth. Then, the beast rubbed its massive head against under his hand. Robb scratched its ears affectionately.

“You....you clever bastard,” Egg muttered.

Robb had told them they all had direwolves, but Egg hadn’t believed him. He thought he was pulling his leg and Robb hadn’t denied it. He sheathed his sword and twisted to look at Lady Sansa. She smirked down at them from her horse.

“So you have one as well?” He asked.

She smiled, the first true smile he’d seen from her, and his heart stuttered. It’s softened her sharp, aristocratic features, morphing her from the harsh lady in the godswood to a happy young maiden. She was stunning. Absolutely beautiful.

“.....Lady Shaggydog, will meet us further north,” she was saying, “and my sister’s, Nymeria, is on her way to Winterfell. They’ve been very busy while we’ve been gone.”

“Lady what?” He asked, blonde brows furrowed.

“Shaggydog,” she said, as though anything else would have been irregular.

Egg nodded, not sure what one said to such a thing, and meandered back to his horse. They left soon after, heading north at a quick pace. If any of them were uncomfortable or tired, they didn’t let it be known. The massive direwolf followed them, far enough away to keep the horses calm. Once he disappeared into the trees and came back an hour later with a bloody muzzle. Egg slept surprisingly well that night. He was exhausted and there was no better watch dog than a wolf bigger than a pony.

He woke shivering. Still, he persevered and mounted his horse with stiff legs. The air nipped at them the further they rode. Something was odd. The higher the sun rose, the more things shifted. The horses noticed, shaking their heads and snorting. The Starks were up to something. Surely they wouldn’t ride to battle with a woman in the company. Egg had seen his fair share of female warriors, but none in dresses and their hair dancing in the wind. He glanced at the Dornishmen, hoping for some sort of hint. Their haughty features were alight with a joyful maliciousness.

Egg reined in closer to Duck. They shared a curt nod, both relieved to be back in the familiarity of violence.

Slowly, the uneven terrain flattened and gave way to more forests. Despite his unease, he couldn’t help but wonder how much of a fortune the Starks made selling lumber to Braavos.A wide road appeared soon after. Grey Wind took point, his massive paws kicking up mud. Little huts and trails of smoke began to dot the horizon. They passed a few travelers, all waiting with their heads bowed. Direwolves were more effective than any banner, he supposed.

A group of horsemen waited around a sharp curve. Stout wooden homes and shops nestled together down the road. Whoever the newcomers were, they were very rude. Only the Dothraki could have made a graceful halt at their sudden appearance. Aegon managed a good viewing position in all of the disarray. It did not surprise him that the contingent of soldiers circled the stangers.

The group consisted of a short, rather handsome young man, a woman at his side, and three soldiers. They carried no banner and wore no sigil. Odd. Bandits, maybe? Egg loosened the long knife on his hip. He ached for Blackfyre. Though it was disguised, he preferred not bring attention to it unless necessary. Also, it was too fucking big for traipsing around the countryside. Presently, it was holstered to his saddle, begging for blood.

The young man bowed with a flourish.

“My Lord and Lady Stark. How may I be of assistance to you on this beautiful day?” He was very charismatic. Those were the ones you had to watch.

“Ramsey Snow,” Sansa said in greeting. She twisted her grip on the reins. A show of nerves, perhaps.

Aegon gaped at the scars. He’d never seen her in anything but long, tight sleeves. Today’s dress came down to just below her elbow. Her skin was covered in cuts and nicks that came from a long, hard life. Strange on a young noble woman, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. It was her left arm that caught the eye. A nasty, pink dog bite twisted down to her wrist. It’s teeth had really sunk in and ripped off the meat. It didn’t seem to be cared for either.

It was no show of nerves. She wanted them all too look at it. Clever. Ramsey Snow stared down at the lady’s arm with surprise and....Was that glee?

“I see you’ve made many friends on your adventure,” Snow said cheerfully. “Is that a lost Targaryen?”

Aegon grinned. “Afraid not. Just another silver-haired bastard.”

Snow chuckled. He cast an adoring look at the skinny girl on his right. “This is my friend-“

“Myranda,” Sansa answered. Her smile was sugar sweet. Aegon inwardly shuddered. “I am so glad you’re here.”

Myranda tried to disguise her nervous twitch with a bow. “Milady. A pleasure.”

“Oh no, the pleasure is all mine. We are here to arrest you.”

Ramsey Snow threw his head back and laughed, the jovial noise bouncing off the trees. There was something wrong about that laugh. Some primal part of Aegon sensed a predator.

“On what charges?” Snow inquired. He could have been asking for someone to pass the salt.

Sansa’s full lips pulled back into a small smile. “You are guilty of many things, Ramsey Snow. For now, however, you will be tried for abduction, attempted murder, rape, torture, and attempted fratricide.”

His grin froze, pale eyes widened.

“Aye, Domeric lived,” Lord Robb added. “He just happened to have business with my father after his trip home. It wasn’t difficult to figure out which poison you used. Not many you can get your hands on up here.”

Ramsey Snow rolled his shoulders and sighed. Aegon did not miss how his grip tightened on the reins. The bastard would make a run for it into the woods. “Shame. He was lacking certain qualities required of a Lord of the Dreadfort.”

“I disagree,” Prince Oberyn said, surprising them all with his interruption. “He is quite clever, creative, and talented with a sword. I suspect he would have already been knighted if he worshipped the Seven.”

“Ah, the Red Viper. Tell me, which sword do you speak of? Did you like getting fucked up the ass by a flayed man?”

“Mmm. You see, I prefer to do the fucking. Unfortunately, I am not interested in fucking the likes of you, but I can teach you a few other things. Would you like to see how we treat rapists in Dorne? My eldest is sailing north and she is quite proficient with a spear.”

Snow blanched. A few of the men laughed. Others shifted uncomfortably. Ramsey’s legs flexed against his saddle. Soon, one more lewd comment maybe, and he would dash to the trees. Egg didn’t have any experience with forests and woods. There wasn’t much he could do.

“Do you remember the last thing I said to you?” Sansa asked suddenly.

“No hunting redheads, I believe. Shame, that. Made it almost impossible to resist.”

Hunting redheads? Surely they didn’t mean actually hunting redheads?

“I also promised to hunt you down. Please don’t try to run. I have more pressing matters to attend to than a petulant boy.”

Ramsey Snow snarled at Lady Sansa. Her brother urged his horse closer until she threw up an arm for him to halt.

“What would you-“

“You have your hounds, bastard. I have something much better.”

Leaves crunched, horses whinnied, and men cursed. Grey Wind strolled through the trees, another wolf on his heels. Sansa’s direwolf prowled through the knights, never blinking as she stared at Ramsey Snow. Her head was almost level with his horse’s. The monster paled, true fear overtaking his mad anger.

“She’s grown quite a lot since, hasn’t she? Lady isn’t the alpha or the quickest or the wildest but it doesn’t make her any less of a direwolf.”

“Grey Wind, he’s the fastest,” Robb spoke up. His wolf’s ears perked up at his name. “Not as big or as fierce as Ghost but he can snap a neck just as well.”

Sansa frowned. It was almost a pout. “We wouldn’t do that, of course. That’s too kind a death for the likes of you.”

Ramsey Snow’s face turned a worrying shade of red. “You can’t prove anything.”

“That is why we have trials,” Sansa conceded. “But do you remember Elspeth? The girl with the curls? The one you beat and cut and raped and then set loose in the forest? It wasn’t a shadowcat or wolves that took your prey. It was a direwolf. Two, actually. Elspeth is alive and very angry.”

The Myranda girl started weeping, heaving sobs shaking her shoulders. Crocodile tears, a man from Southroyos had once called them.

“Please milady. Ramsey, he made me-“

“If anything, you are worse than he is. You betrayed fellow women for the affection of sadistic boy.”

Robb smirked as the girl blanched.

“Drop your weapons,” He ordered.

Ramsey Snow’s soldiers immediately unsheathed their blades and tossed them to the ground. Myranda tossed her bow and arrows over.

“Snow,” he demanded.

Ramsey‘s lips pulled back to reveal his teeth like a rabid dog. Lady growled and showed her own teeth. It was much more fearsome. Suddenly, Myranda shrieked and the bastard slumped in his saddle. Oberyn Martell leaned against his spear, very pleased with himself.. Two men immediately got to work shackling Ramsey and tying him to his saddle. Sansa called them off when they reached for Myranda.

“Don’t.” She ordered. “Tie her to my horse. Let’s see if she can keep up.”

The girl started sobbing again. This time, her nose turned red and she tripped over her pleading words. It was a shame. She could have been cute.

 

The next morning, everyone broke their fast on wine and berries and bread. They’d gagged Ramsey the night before, not an hour after he regained consciousness. Apparently his grand plan for escape was to annoy them until they released him. The skinny girl named Myranda huddled under a blanket, not yet aware that she would be in a saddle.

Aegon frowned at both of them as he passed. Prince Oberyn and Ser Daemon had camped close to the fire. He approached them as they were pulling on their gloves. The knight glanced up, grimaced, and sauntered off to ready their horses.

Egg cleared his throat. “Prince Oberyn.”

The prince sighed. He spun abruptly, a serious expression on his face. “Young Aegon. You have come to confront me, yes?”

“What?! No! -“

“Relax. I did not mean it like that.”

“Oh. Good. I came to apologize-“

“For what?”

Egg’s stomach flipped.

The prince continued, “A pawn cannot help it’s master’s hand. A mummer cannot help his writer’s lines. A child cannot help their parent’s lies.”

A sharp pain came to chest at the thought. He rubbed at it, a bad habit he’d picked up. If Connington truly loved Rhaegar as a brother- or something else like the Viper hinted at- he would have known. Was he too mad with grief to see the truth? Or was he so thirsty for revenge that he simply did not care?

Aegon’s only family were sellswords. He never knew a mother. Lemore was too temperamental and impulsive to be loving. Jon was too jaded. Fear did not come easy to Aegon. Atrocities and gore and betrayal were not unfamiliar. The pure, unadulterated rage and grief that came from Oberyn Martell was something else altogether. It made him wonder if having a family was the wisest thing to wish for.

“Do not look so sad, Aegon. We are in a new land in a time of heroes and legends.“

Egg’s lips pulled down in distaste. “I could do without the cold.”

The prince chuckled. “Yes, I agree. You should have seen our kind Lady Sansa in southern dress.”

“I don’t know if I would call her kind.”

It was Oberyn’s turn to frown. “Perhaps not, but I have a feeling she will be remembered as one of the legends of our time. Come, ride with Daemon and I to Winterfell. We can trade tales of our times in Essos.”

* * *

Sansa and Robb threw propriety into the wind and thundered past their guests to Wintertown. They smiled and waved and laughed as the townspeople halted their work to welcome the Stark heirs home. Alto the butcher waved his meat cleaver like a banner. Cora and Sadie shouted obscenities at Robb from the brothel’s second story. 

Septa Mordane stood with Miss Tillie outside the orphanage. She and Sansa shared a warm smile. While the two no longer shares a faith, they did want to better the world around them. The septa took up the role as liaison between Winterfell and the orphanage. The boys were being conscripted as soldiers, along with whichever girls wished to do so. Other girls were being taught whatever useful roles they had a talent for. Sansa would have to check up on their progress. There was a lot for her to do now that she was home.

Every thought in her mind fell out of her ears when she trotted through the gates of Winterfell. Jon Snow waited for them with a little red dragon on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry but the last bit was too good of a cliffhanger to wait until next chapter


End file.
